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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


AT   THE   STUDY   TABLE 


INDOOR  STUDIES 


BY 


JOHN    BURROUGHS 

AUTHOR  OP  "  WAKE  ROBIN,"  "WINTER  SUNSHINE,"  "  BIRDS  AND  POBTS, 
"FRESH  FIELDS,"  "SIGNS  AND  SEASONS,"  BTC.,  ETC. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

(Cbe  LliluTSi&r  IhTSS,  £amlmDQi% 


Copyright,  1889,  1895, 
BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 


I.  HENRY  D.  THOREAU 1 

II.  SCIENCE  AND  LITERATURE 43 

III.  SCIENCE  AND  THE  POETS 69 

IV.  MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  ....  81 
V.  ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLK       .  129 

VI.  GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK 163 

VII.  A  MALFORMED  GIANT 179 

VIII.  BRIEF  ESSAYS  : 

I.  The  Biologist's  Tree  of  Life  ....  193 

II.  Dr.  Johnson  and  Carlyle 198 

III.  Little  Spoons  vs.  Big  Spoons  ....  206 

IV.  The  Ethics  of  War 211 

V.  Solitude 217 

VI.  An  Open  Door 225 

VII.  The  True  Realism 234 

VIII.  Literary  Fame 239 

IX.  AN  EGOTISTICAL  CHAPTER 243 

INDEX 261 


192642 


y>     OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


INDOOR  STUDIES 


HENRY   D.   THOREAU 

IN"  "  Walden "  Thoreau  enumerates,  in  a  serio 
humorous  vein,  his  various  unpaid  occupa 
tions,  such  as  inspector  of  storms,  surveyor  of  forest 
paths  and  all  across-lot  routes,  shepherd  and  herder 
to  the  wild  stock  of  the  town,  etc.  Among  the 
rest  he  says:  "For  a  long  time  I  was  reporter  to  a 
journal  of  no  very  wide  circulation,  whose  editor 
has  never  yet  seen  fit  to  print  the  bulk  of  my  con 
tributions,  and,  as  is  too  common  with  writers, 
I  got  only  my  labor  for  my  pains.  However,  in 
this  case  my  pains  were  their  own  reward."  The 
journal  to  which  Thoreau  so  playfully  alludes,  con 
sisting  of  many  manuscript  volumes,  is  now  the  prop 
erty  of  Mr.  H.  G.  0.  Blake,  an  old  friend  and 
correspondent  of  his,  and  his  rejected  contributions 
to  it,  after  a  delay  of  nearly  twenty  years,  are 
being  put  into  print.  "Early  Spring  in  Massachu 
setts,"  "Summer,"  and  "Winter,"  lately  published, 
are  made  up  of  excerpts  from  this  journal.  A  few 


2  INDOOR    STUDIES 

of  the  passages  in  the  former  have  been  in  print 
before.  I  notice  one  in  the  "Week,"  one  or  more 
in  his  discourse  on  "Walking,  or  the  Wild,"  and 
one  in  the  essay  called  "Life  without  Principle." 

Thoreau  published  but  two  volumes  in  his  life 
time,  "A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack 
Rivers "  —  which,  by  the  way,  is  mainly  a  record 
of  other  and  much  longer  voyages  upon  other  and 
less  tangible  rivers  than  those  named  in  the  title  — 
and  "Walden,  or  Life  in  the  Woods."  The  other 
six  volumes  of  his  works,  including  Mr.  Blake's, 
have  been  collected  and  published  since  his  death.1 

Of  Thoreau' s  journal  as  published  by  Mr.  Blake 
I  think  it  may  be  said  that  a  good  deal  of  it  is 
evidently  experimental  with  the  author.  There  is 
often  an  attempt  to  make  something  out  of  nothing 
by  the  mere  force  of  words.  He  squeezes  his  sub 
ject  as  in  a  vice;  we  feel  the  effort  he  makes,  but 
the  result  is  often  not  worth  the  labor;  the  precious 
drop  he  is  after  is  not  forthcoming.  In  fact,  his 
journal  is  largely  the  record  of  a  search  for  some 
thing  he  never  fully  finds:  any  fact  of  natural  his 
tory  or  botany  or  geology  which  he  does  find  is 
only  incidental;  he  turns  it  over  curiously,  remarks 
upon  it,  and  passes  on  in  his  chase  of  the  unattain 
able.  Yet  there  is  most  excellent  and  characteristic 
matter  in  his  journal,  and  many  valuable  and  in 
teresting  natural  history  notes.  When  he  wrote 

1  Since  this  was  written  a  new  Riverside  Edition  of  Thoreau's 
writings  has  been  published  in  eleven  volumes,  including  Autumn, 
from  his  journal,  and  a  selection  of  his  Familiar  Letters. 


HENRY   D.   THOREAU  3 

a  book  or  a  lecture  or  an  essay,  we  are  told,  he 
went  to  his  journal  for  the  greater  share  of  his  ma- 
'terial.  He  revised  and  corrected  and  supplemented 
his  record  from  day  to  day  and  from  year  to  year, 
till  it  often  reflects  truly  his  life  and  mind.  He 
was  a  man  so  thoroughly  devoted  to  principle  and 
to  his  own  aims  in  life  that  he  seems  never  to  have 
allowed  himself  one  indifferent  or  careless  moment. 
He  was  always  making  the  highest  demands  upon 
himself  and  upon  others. 

In  his  private  letters  his  bow  is  strung  just  as 
taut  as  in  his  printed  works,  and  he  uses  arrows 
from  the  same  quiver,  and  sends  them  just  as  high 
and  far  as  he  can.  In  his  journal  it  appears  to  be 
the  same. 

Thoreau's  fame  has  steadily  increased  since  his 
death,  in  1862,  as  it  was  bound  to  do.  It  was 
little  more  than  in  the  bud  at  that  time,  and  its 
full  leaf  and  flowering  are  not  yet,  perhaps -not  in 
many  years  yet.  He  improves  with  age;  in  fact, 
requires  age  to  take  off  a  little  of  his  asperity  and 
fully  ripen  him.  The  generation  he  lectured  so 
sharply  will  not  give  the  same  heed  to  his  words  as 
will  the  next  and  the  next.  The  first  effect  of  the 
reading  of  his  books,  upon  many  minds,  is  irritation 
and  disapproval;  the  perception  of  their  beauty  and 
wisdom  comes  later.  He  makes  short  work  of  our 
prejudices;  he  likes  the  wind  in  his  teeth,  and  to 
put  it  in  the  teeth  of  his  reader.  He  was  a  man 
devoid  of  compassion,  devoid  of  sympathy,  devoid 
of  generosity,  devoid  of  patriotism,  as  these  words 


4  INDOOR   STUDIES 

are  usually  understood,  yet  his  life  showed  a  devo 
tion  to  principle  such  as  one  life  in  millions  does 
not  show;  and  matching  this  there  runs  through  his 
works  a  vein  of  the  purest  and  rarest  poetry  and 
the  finest  wisdom.  For  both  these  reasons,  time 
will  enhance  rather  than  lessen  the  value  of  his 
contributions.  The  world  likes  a  good  hater  and 
refuser  almost  as  well  as  it  likes  a  good  lover  and 
acceptor,  only  it  likes  him  farther  off. 

In  writing  of  Thoreau,  I  am  not  conscious  of 
having  any  criticism  to  make  of  him.  I  would  fain 
accept  him  just  as  he  was,  and  make  the  most  of 
him,  defining  and  discriminating  him  as  I  would 
a  flower  or  a  bird  or  any  other  product  of  nature,  — 
perhaps  exaggerating  some  features  the  better  to 
bring  them  out.  There  were  greater  men  among 
his  contemporaries,  but  I  doubt  if  there  were  any 
more  genuine  and  sincere,  or  more  devoted  to  ideal 
ends.  If  he  was  not  this,  that,  or  the  other  great 
man,  he  was  Thoreau,  and  he  fills  his  own  niche 
well,  and  has  left  a  positive  and  distinct  impression 
upon  the  literature  of  his  country.  He  did  his 
work  thoroughly;  he  touched  bottom;  he  made  the 
most- of  his  life.  He  said:  "I  would  not  be  one 
of  those  who  will  foolishly  drive  a  nail  into  mere 
lath  and  plastering ; "  he  would  beat  about  with  his 
hammer  till  he  found  the  studding,  and  no  one 
can  study  his  life  and  books  and  not  feel  that  he 
really  drove  his  nail  home  into  good  solid  timber. 
He  was,  perhaps,  a  little  too  near  his  friend  and 
master,  Emerson,  and  brought  too  directly  under 


HENRY   D.   THOREAU  5 

his  influence.  If  he  had  lived  farther  from  him, 
he  would  have  felt  his  attraction  less.  But  he  was 
just  as  positive  a  fact  as  Emerson.  The  contour 
of  his  moral  nature  was  just  as  firm  and  resisting. 
He  was  no  more  a  soft-shelled  egg,  to  be  dented 
by  every  straw  in  the  nest,  than  was  his  distin 
guished  neighbor. 

An  English  reviewer  has  summed  up  his  estimate 
of  Thoreau  by  calling  him  a  "skulker,"  which  is  the 
pith  of  Dr.  Johnson's  smart  epigram  about  Cowley, 
a  man  in  whom  Thoreau  is  distinctly  foreshadowed : 
"If  his  activity  was  virtue,  his  retreat  was  coward 
ice."  Thoreau  was  a  skulker  if  it  appears  that  he 
ran  away  from  a  noble  part  to  perform  an  ignoble, 
or  one  less  noble.  The  world  has  a  right  to  the 
best  there  is  in  a  man,  both  in  word  and  deed,  — 
from  the  scholar,  knowledge;  from  the  soldier, 
courage;  from  the  statesman,  wisdom;  from  the 
farmer,  good  husbandry,  etc. ;  and  from  all,  virtue : 
but  has  it  a  right  to  say  arbitrarily  who  shall  be 
soldiers  and  who  poets  ?  Is  there  no  virtue  but 
virtue  1  no  religion  but  in  the  creeds  ?  no  salt  but 
what  is  crystallized?  Who  shall  presume  to  say 
the  world  did  not  get  the  best  there  was  in  Thoreau, 
—  high  and  much-needed  service  from  him,  — 
albeit  there  appear  in  the  account  more  kicks  than 
compliments  ?  Would  you  have  had  him  stick  to 
his  lead-pencils,  or  to  school-teaching,  and  let  Wai- 
den  Pond  and  the  rest  go  ?  We  should  have  lost 
some  of  the  raciest  and  most  antiseptic  books  in 
English  literature,  and  an  example  of  devotion  to 


6  INDOOR   STUDIES 

principle  that  provokes  and  stimulates  like  a  winter 
morning.  I  am  not  aware  that  Thoreau  shirked 
any  responsibility  or  dodged  any  duty  proper  to 
him,  and  he  could  look  the  world  as  square  in  the 
face  as  any  man  that  ever  lived. 

The  people  of  his  native  town  remember  at  least 
one  notable  occasion  on  which  Thoreau  did  not 
skulk,  nor  sulk  either.  I  refer  to  the  30th  of  Octo 
ber,  1859,  when  he  made  his  plea  for  Captain  John 
Brown,  while  the  hero  was  on  trial  in  Virginia. 
It  was  proposed  to  stop  Thoreau 's  mouth,  persuade 
him  to  keep  still  and  lie  low,  but  he  was  not  to  be 
stopped.  He  thought  there  were  enough  lying  low, 
—  the  ranks  were  all  full  there,  the  ground  was 
covered;  and  in  an  address  delivered  in  Concord  he 
glorified  the  old  hero  in  words  that,  at  this  day  and 
in  the  light  of  subsequent  events,  it  thrills  the  blood 
to  read.  This  instant  and  unequivocal  indorsement 
of  Brown  by  Thoreau,  in  the  face  of  the  most  over 
whelming  public  opinion  even  among  antislavery 
men,  throws  a  flood  of  light  upon  him.  It  is  the 
most  significant  act  of  his  life.  It  clinches  him ; 
it  makes  the  colors  fast.  We  know  he  means  what 
he  says  after  that.  It  is  of  the  same  metal  and  has 
the  same  ring  as  Brown's  act  itself.  It  shows 
what  thoughts  he  had  fed  his  soul  on,  what  school 
he  had  schooled  himself  in,  what  his  devotion  to 
the  ideal  meant.  His  hatred  of  slavery  and  injus 
tice,  and  of  the  government  that  tolerated  them, 
was  pure,  and  it  went  clean  through;  it  stopped  at 
nothing.  Iniquitous  laws  must  be  defied,  and  there 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  7 

is  no  previous  question.  "The  fact  that  the  politi 
cian  fears,"  he  says,  referring  to  the  repeal  of  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  "is  merely  that  there  is  less 
honor  among  thieves  than  was  supposed,  and  not 
the  fact  that  they  are  thieves. "  For  the  most  part, 
Thoreau's  political  tracts  and  addresses  seem  a  little 
petulant  and  willful,  and  fall  just  short  of  enlisting 
one's  sympathies;  and  his  carrying  his  opposition 
to  the  state  to  the  point  of  allowing  himself  to  be 
put  in  jail  rather  than  pay  a  paltry  tax,  savors  a 
little  bit  of  the  grotesque  and  the  melodramatic. 
But  his  plea  for  John  Brown  when  the  whole  coun 
try  was  disowning  him,  abolitionists  and  all,  fully 
satisfies  one's  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things.  It 
does  not  overshoot  the  mark.  The  mark  was  high, 
and  the  attitude  of  the  speaker  was  high  and  scorn 
ful,  and  uncompromising  in  the  extreme.  It  was 
just  the  occasion  required  to  show  Thoreau's  metal. 
"If  this  man's  acts  and  words  do  not  create  a  revi 
val,  it  will  be  the  severest  possible  satire  on  the 
acts  and  words  that  do.  It  is  the  best  news  that 
America  has  ever  heard."  "Think  of  him, — of 
his  rare  qualities !  —  such  a  man  as  it  takes  ages  to 
make,  and  ages  to  understand;  no  mock  hero,  nor 
the  representative  of  any  party.  A  man  such  as 
the  sun  may  not  rise  upon  again  in  this  benighted 
land,  to  whose  making  went  the  costliest  material, 
the  finest  adamant;  sent  to  be  the  redeemer  of  those 
in  captivity;  and  the  only  use  to  which  you  can 
put  him  is  to  hang  him  at  the  end  of  a  rope ! " 
"Do  yourselves  the  honor  to  recognize  him;  he 


8  INDOOR   STUDIES- 

needs  none  of  your  respect."  It  was  just  such 
radical  qualities  as  John  Brown  exhibited,  or  their 
analogue  and  counterpart  in  other  fields,  that  Tho- 
reau  coveted  and  pursued  through  life:  in  man, 
devotion  to  the  severest  ideal,  friendship  founded 
upon  antagonism,  or  hate,  as  he  preferred  to  call  it; 
in  nature  the  untamed  and  untamable,  even  verging 
on  the  savage  and  pitiless;  in  literature  the  heroic, 
—  "books,  not  which  afford  us  a  cowering  enjoy 
ment,  but  in  which  each  thought  is  of  unusual 
daring;  such  as  an  idle  man  cannot  read,  and  a 
timid  one  would  not  be  entertained  by."  Indeed, 
Thoreau  was  Brown's  spiritual  brother,  the  last  and 
finer  flowering  of  the  same  plant,  —  the  seed  flower 
ing:  he  was  just  as^much  of  a  zealot,  was  just  as 
gritty  and  unflinching  in  his  way;  a  man  whose 
brow  was  set,  whose  mind  was  made  up,  and  lead 
ing  just  as  forlorn  a  hope,  and  as  little  quailed  by 
the  odds. 

In  the  great  army  of  Mammon,  the  great  army 
of  the  fashionable,  the  complacent  and  church-go 
ing,  Thoreau  was  a  skulker,  even  a  deserter,  if  you 
please,  —  yea,  a  traitor  fighting  on  the  other  side. 

Emerson  regrets  the  'loss  to  the  world  of  his  rare 
powers  of  action,  and  thinks  that,  instead  of  being 
the  captain  of  a  huckleberry-party,  he  might  have 
engineered  for  all  America.  But  Thoreau,  doubt 
less,  knew  himself  better  when  he  said,  with  his 
usual  strength  of  metaphor,  that  he  was  as  unfit  for 
the  coarse  uses  of  this  world  as  gossamer  for  ship- 
timber.  A  man  who  believes  that  "life  should  be 


HENRY   D.   THOREAU  9 

lived  as  tenderly  and  daintily  as  one  would  pluck 
a  flower,"  and  actually  and  seriously  aims  to  live 
his  life  so,  is  not  a  man  to  engineer  for  all  America. 
If  you  want  a  columbiad  you  must  have  tons  and 
tons  of  gross  metal ;  and  if  you  want  an  engineer  for 
all  America,  leader  and  wielder  of  vast  masses  of 
men,  you  must  have  a  certain  breadth  and  coarse 
ness  of  fibre*  in  your  hero  :  but  if  you  want  a  trench 
ant  blade  like  Thoreau,  you  must  leave  the  pot- 
metal  out  and  look  for  something  bluer  and  finer. 

Thoreau  makes  a  frank  confession  upon  this  very 
point  in  his  journal,  written  when  he  was  but 
twenty-five.  "  I  must  confess  I  have  felt  mean 
enough  when  asked  how  I  was  to  act  on  society, 
what  errand  I  had  to  mankind.  Undoubtedly  I 
did  not  feel  mean  without  a  reason,  and  yet  my 
loitering  is  not  without  a  defense.  I  would  fain 
communicate  the  wealth  of  my  life  to  men,  would 
really  give  them  what  is  most  precious  in  my  gift. 
I  would  secrete  pearls  with  the  shellfish,  and  lay 
up  honey  with  the  bees  for  them.  I  will  sift  the 
sunbeams  for  the  public  good.  I  know  no  riches  I 
would  keep  back."  And  his  subsequent  life  made 
good  these  words.  He  gave  the  world  the  strong 
est  and  bravest  there  was  in  him,  the  pearls  of  his 
life,  —  not  a  fat  oyster,  not  a  reputation  unctuous 
with  benevolence  and  easy  good-will,  but  a  character 
crisp  and  pearl-like,  full  of  hard,  severe  words  and 
stimulating  taunts  and  demands.  Thoreau  was  an 
extreme  product,  an  extreme  type  of  mind  and  char 
acter,  and  was  naturally  more  or  less  isolated  from 


10  INDOOR   STUDIES 

his  surroundings.  He  planted  himself  far  beyond 
the  coast-line  that  bounds  most  lives,  and  seems 
insular  and  solitary;'  but  he  believed  he  had  the 
granite  floor  of  principle  beneath  him,  and  without 
the  customary  intervening  clay  or  quicksands. 

Of  a  profile  we  say  the  outlines  are  strong,  or 
they  are  weak  and  broken.  The  outlines  of  Tho- 
reau's  moral  nature  are  strong  and  noble,  but  the 
direct  face-to-face  expression  of  his  character  is  not 
always  pleasing,  not  always  human.  He  appears 
best  in  profile,  when  looking  away  from  you  and 
not  toward  you,  —  when  looking  at  nature  and  not 
at  man.  He  combined  a  remarkable  strength  of 
will  with  a  nature  singularly  sensitive  and  delicate, 
—  the  most  fair  and  fragile  of  wood-flowers  on  an 
iron  stem.  With  more  freedom  and  flexibility  of 
character,  greater  capacity  for  self-surrender  and 
self-abandonment,  he  would  have  been  a  great  poet. 
But  his  principal  aim  in  life  was  moral  and  intellec 
tual,  rather  than  artistic.  He  was  an  ascetic  before 
he  was  a  poet,  and  he  cuts  the  deepest  in  the  direc 
tion  of  character  and  conduct.  He  had  no  caution 
or  prudence  in  the  ordinary  sense,  no  worldly  tem 
porizing  qualities  of  any  kind ;  was  impatient  of  the 
dross  and  alloy  of  life,  —  would  have  it  pure  flame, 
pure  purpose  and  aspiration1;  and,  so  far  as  he  could 
make  it,  his  life  was  so.  He  was,  by  nature,  of  the 
Opposition;  he  had  a  constitutional  No  in  him  that 
could  not  be  tortured  into  Yes.  He  was  of  the  stuff 
that  saints  and  martyrs  and  devotees,  or,  if  you  please, 
fanatics  are  made  of,  and  no  doubt,  in  an  earlier  age, 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  11 

would  have  faced  the  rack  or  the  stake  with  perfect 
composure.  Such  a  man  was  bound  to  make  an  im 
pression  by  contrast,  if  not  by  comparison,  with  the 
men  of  his  country  and  time.  He  is,  for  the  most 
part,  a  figure  going  the  other  way  from  that  of  the 
eager,  money-getting,  ambitious  crowd,  and  he  ques 
tions  and  admonishes  and  ridicules  the  passers-by 
sharply.  We  all  see  him  and  remember  him,  and 
feel  his  shafts.  Especially  was  his  attitude  upon 
all  social  and  political  questions  scornful  and  exas 
perating.  His  devotion  to  principle,  to  the  ideal, 
was  absolute ;  it  was  like  that  of  the  Hindu  to  his 
idol.  If  it  devoured  him  or  crushed  him,  —  what 
business  was  that  of  his  ?  There  was  no  conceiv 
able  failure  in  adherence  to  principle. 

Thoreau  was,  probably,  the  wildest  civilized  man 
this  country  has  produced,  adding  to  the  shyness  of 
the  hermit  and  woodsman  the  wildness  of  the  poet, 
and  to  the  wildness  of  the  poet  the  greater  ferity 
and  elusiveness  of  the  mystic.  An  extreme  product 
of  civilization  and  of  modern  culture,  he  was  yet  as 
untouched  by  the  worldly  and  commercial  spirit  of 
his  age  and  country  as  any  red  man  that  ever 
haunted  the  shores  of  his  native  stream.  He  put 
the  whole  of  nature  between  himself  and  his  fel 
lows.  A  man  of  the  strongest  local  attachments,  — 
not  the  least  nomadic,  seldom  wandering  beyond  his 
native  township,  —  yet  his  spirit  was  as  restless  and 
as  impatient  of  restraint  as  any  nomad  or  Tartar 
that  ever  lived.  He  cultivated  an  extreme  wild- 
ness*  not  only  in  his  pursuits  and  tastes,  but  in  his 


12  INDOOR   STUDIES 

hopes  and  imaginings.  He  says  to  his  friend, 
"Hold  fast  your  most  indefinite  waking  dream." 
Emerson  says  his  life  was  an  attempt  to  pluck  the 
Swiss  edelweiss  from  the  all  but  inaccessible  cliffs. 
The  higher  and  the  wilder,  the  more  the  fascination 
for  him.  Indeed,  the  loon,  the  moose,  the  beaver, 
were  but  faint  types  and  symbols  of  the  wildness 
he  coveted  and  would  have  reappear  in  his  life  and 
books ;  not  the  cosmical,  the  universal,  —  he  was 
not  great  enough  for  that,  —  but  simply  the  wild  as 
distinguished  from  the  domestic  and  the  familiar, 
the  remote  and  the  surprising  as  contrasted  with 
the  hackneyed  and  the  commonplace,  arrow-heads 
as  distinguished  from  whetstones  or  jackknives. 

Thoreau  was  French  on  one  side  and  Puritan  on 
the  other.  It  was  probably  the  wild,  untamable 
French  core  in  him  —  a  dash  of  the  gray  wolf  that 
stalks  through  his  ancestral  folk-lore,  as  in  Audubon 
and  the  Canadian  voyageurs  —  that  made  him  turn 
with  such  zest  and  such  genius  to  aboriginal  nature ; 
and  it  was  the  Puritan  element  in  him  —  strong, 
grim,  uncompromising,  almost  heartless  —  that  held 
him  to  such  high,  austere,  moral,  and  ideal  ends. 
His  genius  was  Saxon  in  its  homeliness  and  sin 
cerity,  in  its  directness  and  scorn  of  rhetoric;  but 
that  wild  revolutionary  cry  of  his,  and  that  sort  of 
restrained  ferocity  and  hirsuteness,  are  more  French. 
He  said  in  one  of  his  letters,  when  he  was  but 
twenty-four:  "I  grow  savager  and  savager  every 
day,  as  if  fed  on  raw  meat,  and  my  tameness  is 
only  the  repose  of  untamableness. "  But  his  sav- 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  13 

ageness  took  a  mild  form.  He  could  not  even  eat 
meat;  it  was  unclean  and  offended  his  imagination, 
and  when  he  went  to  Maine  he  felt  for  weeks  that 
his  nature  had  been  made  the  coarser  because  he 
had  witnessed  the  killing  of  a  moose.  His  boasted 
savageness,  the  gray  wolf  in  him,  only  gave  a  more 
decided  grit  or  grain  to  his  mental  and  moral  nature, 
—  made  him  shut  his  teeth  the  more  firmly,  some 
times  even  with  an  audible  snap  and  growl,  upon 
the  poor  lambs  and  ewes  and  superannuated  wethers 
of  the  social,  religious,  political  folds. 

In  his  moral  and  intellectual  growth  and  expe 
rience,  Thoreau  seems  to  have  reacted  strongly  from 
a  marked  tendency  to  invalidism  in  his  own  body. 
He  would  be  well  in  spirit  at  all  hazards.  What 
was  this  never-ending  search  of  his  for  the  wild 
but  a  search  for  health,  for  something  tonic  and 
antiseptic  in  nature?  Health,  health,  give  me 
health,  is  his  cry.  He  went  forth  into  nature  as 
the  boys  go  to  the  fields  and  woods  in  spring  after 
wintergreens,  black  birch,  crinkle-root,  and  sweet- 
flag;  he  had  an  unappeasable  hunger  for  the  pun 
gent,  the  aromatic,  the  bitter-sweet,  for  the  very 
rind  and  salt  of  the  globe.  He  fairly  gnaws  the 
ground  and  the  trees  in  his  walk,  so  craving  is  his 
appetite  for  the  wild.  He  went  to  Walden  to 
study,  but  it  was  as  a  deer  goes  to  a  deer-lick ;  the 
brine  he  was  after  did  abound  there.  Any  trait  of 
wildness  and  freedom  suddenly  breaking  out  in  any 
of  the  domestic  animals,  as  when  your  cow  leaped 
your  fence  like  a  deer  and  ate  up  your  corn,  or 


14  INDOOR    STUDIES 

your  horse  forgot  that  he  was  not  a  mustang  on 
the  plains,  and  took  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  and  left 
your  buggy  and  family  behind  high  and  dry,  etc., 
was  eagerly  snapped  up  by  him.  Ah,  you  have  not 
tamed  them,  you  have  not  broken  them  yet !  He 
makes  a  most  charming  entry  in  his  journal  about 
a  little  boy  he  one  day  saw  in  the  street,  with  a 
home-made  cap  on  his  head  made  of  a  woodchuck's 
skin.  He  seized  upon  it  as  a  horse  with  the  crib- 
bite  seizes  upon  a  post.  It  tasted  good  to  him. 

"The  great  gray-tipped  hairs  were  all  preserved, 
and  stood  out  above  the  brown  ones,  only  a  little 
more  loosely  than  in  life.  It  was  as  if  he  had  put 
his  head  into  the  belly  of  a  woodchuck,  having  cut 
off  his  tail  and  legs,  and  substituted  a  visor  for  the 
head.  The  little  fellow  wore  it  innocently  enough, 
not  knowing  what  he  had  on  forsooth,  going  about 
his  small  business  pit-a-pat,  and  his  black  eyes 
sparkled  beneath  it  when  I  remarked  on  its  warmth, 
even  as  the  woodchuck's  might  have  done.  Such 
should  be  the  history  of  every  piece  of  clothing  that 
we  wear." 

He  says  how  rarely  are  we  encouraged  by  the 
sight  of  simple  actions  in  the  street;  but  when  one 
day  he  saw  an  Irishman  wheeling  home  from  far  a 
large,  damp,  and  rotten  pine  log  for  fuel,  he  felt 
encouraged.  That  looked  like  fuel;  it  warmed  him 
to  think  of  it.  The  piles  of  solid  oak-wood  which 
he  saw  in  other  yards  did  not  interest  him  at  all  in 
comparison.  It  savored  of  the  wild,  and,  though 
water-soaked,  his  fancy  kindled  at  the  sight. 


HENRY   D.   THOREAU  15 

He  loved  wild  men,  .not  tame  ones.  Any  half- 
wild  Irishman,  or  fisherman,  or  hunter  in  his  neigh 
borhood  he  was  sure  to  get  a  taste  of  sooner  or 
later.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  hankering  for  the 
Indian  all  his  life;  could  eat  hirn  raw,  one  would 
think.  In  fact,  he  did  try  him  when  he  went  to 
Maine,  and  succeeded  in  extracting  more  nutriment 
out  of  him  than  any  other  man  has  done.  He 
found  him  rather  tough  diet,  and  was  probably  a 
little  disappointed  in  him,  but  he  got  something 
out  of  him  akin  to  that  which  the  red  squirrel  gets 
out  of  a  pine-cone.  In  his  books  he  casts  many  a 
longing  and  envious  glance  upon  the  Indian.  Some 
old  Concord  sachem  seems  to  have  looked  into  his 
fount  of  life  and  left  his  image  there.  His  annual 
spring  search  for  arrow-heads  was  the  visible  out 
cropping  of  this  aboriginal  trace.  How  he  prized 
these  relics !  One  is  surprised  to  see  how  much  he 
gets  out  of  them.  They  become  arrow-root  instead 
of  arrow-stones.  "They  are  sown,  like  a  grain 
that  is  slow  to  germinate,  broadcast  over  the  earth. 
As  the  dragon's  teeth  bore  a  crop  of  soldiers,  so 
these  bear  crops  of  philosophers  and  poets,  and  the 
same  seed  is  just  as  good  to  plant  again.  It  is  a 
stone-fruit.  Each  one  yields  me  a  thought.  I 
come  nearer  to  the  maker  of  it  than  if  I  found  his 
bones."  "When  I  see  these  signs,  I  know  that 
the  subtle  spirits  that  made  them  are  not  far  off, 
into  whatever  form  transmuted. " 1  Our  poetry,  he 
said,  was  white  man's  poetry,  and  he  longed  to 
1  Earlii  Sjjring  in  Massachusetts,  pp.  259,  260. 


16  INDOOR    STUDIES 

hear  what  the  Indian  muse  had  to  say.  I  think 
he  liked  the  Indian's  paint  and  feathers.  Cer 
tainly  he  did  his  skins,  and  the  claws  and  hooked 
beaks  with  which  he  adorned  himself.  He  puts 
a  threatening  claw  or  beak  into  his  paragraphs 
whenever  he  can,  and  feathers  his  shafts  with  the 
nicest  art. 

So  wild  a  man,  and  such  a  lover  of  the  wild, 
and  yet  it  does  not  appear  that  he  ever  sowed  any 
wild  oats.  Though  he  somewhere  exclaims  impa 
tiently,  "  What  demon  possesses  me  that  I  behave 
so  well  ? "  he  took  it  all  out  in  transcendentalism 
and  arrow-heads.  His  only  escapades  were  eloping 
with  a  mountain  or  coquetting  with  Walden  Pond ! 
He  sees  a  water-bug,  and  at  once  exclaims,  "Ah! 
if  I  had  no  more  sins  to  answer  for  than  a  water- 
bug  !  "  Had  he  any  more  ?  His  weakness  was 
that  he  had  no  weakness,  —  it  was  only  unkindness. 
He  had  a  deeper  centre-board  than  most  men,  and 
he  carried  less  sail.  The  passions  and  emotions 
and  ambitions  of  his  fellows,  which  are  sails  that 
so  often  need  to  be  close-reefed  and  double-reefed, 
he  was  quite  free  from.  Thoreau's  isolation,  his 
avoidance  of  the  world,  was  in  self-defense,  no 
doubt.  His  genius  would  not  bear  the  contact  of 
rough  hands  any  more  than  would  butterflies'  wings. 
He  says  in  "Walden:"  "The  finest  qualities  of 
our  nature,  like  the  bloom  on  fruits,  can  be  pre 
served  only  by  the  most  delicate  handling."  This 
bloom,  this  natural  innocence,  Thoreau  was  very 
jealous  of  and  sought  to  keep  unimpaired,  and, 


HENRY   D.   THOREAU  17 

perhaps,  succeeded  as  few  men  ever  have.  He 
says  you  cannot  even  know  evil  without  being  a 
particeps  criminis.  He  did  not  so  much  regret 
the  condition  of  things  in  this  country  (in  1861)  as 
that  he  had  ever  heard  of  it. 

Yet  Thoreau  creates  as  much  consternation  among 
the  saints  as  among  the  sinners.  His  delicacy  and 
fineness  were  saved  by  a  kind  of  cross-grain  there 
was  in  him,  —  a  natural  twist  and  stubbornness  of 
fibre.  He  was  not  easily  reduced  to  kindling-wood. 
His  self-indulgences  were  other  men's  crosses.  His 
attitude  was  always  one  of  resistance  and  urge.  He 
hated  sloth  and  indolence  and  compliance  as  he 
hated  rust.  He  thought  nothing  was  so  much  to 
be  feared  as  fear,  and  that  atheism  might,  compara 
tively,  be  popular  with  God  himself.  Beware  even 
the  luxury  of  affection,  he  says,  — "There  must  be 
some  nerve  and  heroism  in  our  love,  as  in  a  winter 
morning."  He  tells  his  correspondent  to  make  his 
failure  tragical  by  the  earnestness  and  steadfastness 
of  his  endeavor,  and  then  it  will  not  differ  from 
success.  His  saintliness  is  a  rock-crystal.  He  says 
in  "  Walden :  "  "  Probably  I  should  not  consciously 
and  deliberately  forsake  my  particular  calling  to  do 
the  good  which  society  demands  of  me,  to  save  the 
universe  from  annihilation;  and  I  believe  that  a 
like  but  infinitely  greater  steadfastness  elsewhere  is 
all  that  now  preserves  it."  Is  this  crystal  a  dia 
mond  ?  What  will  it  not  cut  1 

There  is  no  grain  of  concession  or  compromise  in 
this  man.  He  asks  no  odds  and  he  pays  no  boot. 


18  INDOOR   STUDIES 

He  will  have  his  way,  but  his  way  is  not  down  the 
stream  with  the  current.  He  loves  to  warp  up  it 
against  wind  and  tide,  holding  fast  by  his  anchor 
at  night.  When  he  is  chagrined  or  disgusted,  it  con 
vinces  him  his  health  is  better,  —  that  there  is  some 
vitality  left.  It  is  not  compliments  his  friends  get 
from  him,  —  rather  taunts.  The  caress  of  the  hand 
may  be  good,  but  the  sting  of  its  palm  is  good  also. 
No  is  more  bracing  and  tonic  than  Yes.  He  said: 
"I  love  to  go  through  a  patch  of  scrub-oaks  in  a 
bee-line,  —  where  you  tear  your  .clothes  and  put 
your  eyes  out."  The  spirit  of  antagonism  never 
sleeps  with  Thoreau,  and  the  love  of  paradox  is  one 
of  his  guiding  stars.  "The  longer  I  have  forgotten 
you,  the  more  I  remember  you,"  he  says  to  his 
correspondent.  "My  friend  is  cold  and  reserved, 
because  his  love  for  me  is  waxing  and  not  waning," 
he  says  in  his  journal.  The  difficult  and  the  dis 
agreeable  are  in  the  line  of  his  self-indulgence. 
Even  lightning  will  choose  the  easiest  way  out  of 
the  house,  —  an  open  window  or  door.  Thoreau 
would  rather  go  through  the  solid  wall,  or  mine  out 
through  the  cellar. 

When  he  is  sad,  his  only  regret  is  that  he  is  not 
sadder.  He  says  if  his  sadness  were  only  sadder  it 
would  make  him  happier.  In  writing  to  his  friend, 
he  says  it  is  not  sad  to  him  to  hear  she  has  sad 
hours:  "I  rather  rejoice  in  the  richness  of  your 
experience."  In  one  of  his  letters,  he  charges  his 
correspondent  to  "improve  every  opportunity  to  be 
melancholy, "  and  accuses  himself  of  being  too  easily 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  19 

contented  with  a  slight  and  almost  animal  happi 
ness.  "  My  happiness  is  a  good  deal  like  that  of 
the  woodchucks. "  He  says  that  "of  acute  sorrow 
I  suppose  that  I  know  comparatively  little.  My 
saddest  and  most  genuine  sorrows  are  apt  to  be  but 
transient  regrets."  Yet  he  had  not  long  before  lost 
by  death  his  brother  John,  with  whom  he  made  his 
voyage  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack.  Referring 
to  John's  death,  he  said:  "I  find  these  things 
more  strange  than  sad  to  me.  What  right  have  I 
to  grieve  who  have  not  ceased  to  wonder  ? "  and 
says  in  effect,  afterward,  that  any  pure  grief  is  its 
own  reward.  John,  he  said,  he  did  not  wish  ever 
to  see  again,  —  not  the  John  that  was  dead  (0 
Henry!  Henry!),  John  as  he  was  in  the  flesh, 
but  the  ideal,  the  nobler  John,  of  whom  the  real 
was  the  imperfect  representative.  When  the  son  of 
his  friend  died,  he  wasted  no  human  regrets.  It 
seemed  very  natural  and  proper  that  he  should  die. 
"  Do  not  the  flowers  die  every  autumn  ?  "  "  His 
fine  organization  demanded  it  [death],  and  nature 
gently  yielded  its  request.  It  would  have  been 
Strange  if  he  had  lived." 

Either  Thoreau  was  destitute  of  pity  and  love  (in 
the  human  sense),  and  of  many  other  traits  that  are 
thought  to  be  both  human  and  divine,  or  else  he 
studiously  suppressed  them  and  thought  them  un 
worthy  of  him.  He  writes  and  talks  a  great  deal 
about  love  and  friendship,  and  often  with  singular 
beauty  and  appreciation,  yet  he  always  says  to  his 
friend:  "Standoff  —  keep  away  !  Let  there  be  an 


20  INDOOR    STUDIES 

unfathomable  gulf  between  us,  —  let  there  be  a 
wholesome  hate."  Indeed,  love  and  hatred  seem 
inseparable  in  his  mind,  and  curiously  identical. 
He  writes  in  his  journal  that  "words  should  pass 
between  friends  as  the  lightning  passes  from  cloud 
to  cloud."  One  of  his  poems  begins:  — 

"  Let  such  pure  hate  still  underprop 
Our  love,  that  we  may  be 
Each  other's  conscience, 
And  have  our  sympathy 
Mainly  from  thence. 

"  Surely,  surely,  thou  wilt  trust  me 
When  I  say  thou  dost  disgust  me. 
Oh,  I  hate  thee  with  a  hate 
That  would  fain  annihilate  ; 
Yet,  sometimes,  against  my  will, 
My  dear  friend,  I  love  thee  still. 
It  were  treason  to  our  love, 
And  a  sin  to  God  above, 
One  iota  to  abate 
Of  a  pure,  impartial  hate." 

This  is  the  salt  with  which  he  seasons  and  pre 
serves  his  love,  —  hatred.  In  this  pickle  it  will 
keep.  Without  it,  it  would  become  stale  and  vulgar. 
This  is  characteristic  of  Thoreau;  he  must  put  in 
something  sharp  and  bitter.  You  shall  not  have  the 
nut  without  its  bitter  acrid  rind  or  prickly  sheath. 

As  a  man,  Thoreau  appears  to  have  been  what  is 
called  a  crusty  person,  —  a  loaf  with  a  hard  bake, 
a  good  deal  of  crust,  forbidding  to  tender  gums, 
but  sweet  to  those  who  had  good  teeth  and  unction 
enough  to  soften  him.  He  says  he  did  not  wish  to 
take  a  cabin  passage  in  life,  "  but  rather  to  go  before 
the  mast  and  on  the  deck  of  the  world." 


HENRY    D.    THOREA.U  21 

He  was  no  fair-weather  walker.  He  delighted 
in  storms,  and  in  frost  and  cold.  They  were  con 
genial  to  him.  They  came  home.  "Yesterday's 
Tain,"  he  begins  an  entry  in  his  journal,  "in  which 
I  was  glad  to  be  drenched,"  etc.  Again  he  says: 
"I  sometimes  feel  that  I  need  to  sit  in  a  far-away 
cave  through  a  three  weeks'  storm,  cold  and  wet, 
to  give  a  tone  to  my  system."  Another  time:  "A 
long,  soaking  rain,  the  drops  trickling  down  the 
stubble,  while  I  lay  drenched  on  a  last  year's  bed 
of  wild  oats,  by  the  side  of  some  bare  hill,  rumi 
nating."  And  this  in  March,  too!  He  says,  "To 
get  the  value  of  a  storm,  we  must  be  out  a  long 
time  and  travel  far  in  it,  so  that  it  may  fairly  pene 
trate  our  skin,"  etc.  He  rejoices  greatly  when, 
on  an  expedition  to  Monadnock,  he  gets  soaked 
with  rain  and  is  made  thoroughly  uncomfortable. 
It  tastes  good.  It  made  him  appreciate  a  roof  and 
a  fire.  The  mountain  gods  were  especially  kind 
and  thoughtful  to  get  up  the  storm.  When  they 
saw  himself  and  friend  coming,  they  said:  "There 
come  two  of  our  folks.  Let  us  get  ready  for  them, 
—  get  up  a  serious  storm  that  will  send  a- packing 
these  holiday  guests.  Let  us  receive  them  with 
true  mountain  hospitality,  —  kill  the  fatted  cloud. " 
In  his  journal  he  says:  "If  the  weather  is  thick 
and  stormy  enough,  if  there  is  a  good  chance  to  be 
cold  and  wet  and  uncomfortable,  —  in  other  words, 
to  feel  weather-beaten,  —  you  may  consume  the  after 
noon  to  advantage,  thus  browsing  along  the  edge  of 
some  near  wood,  which  would  scarcely  detain  you 


22  INDOOR   STUDIES 

at  all  in  fair  weather. "  "There  is  no  better  fence 
to  put  between  you  and  the  village  than  a  storm 
into  which  the  villagers  do  not  venture  forth." 
This  passion  for  storms  and  these  many  drenchings 
no  doubt  helped  shorten  Thoreau's  days. 

This  crustiness,  this  playful  and  willful  perver 
sity  of  Thoreau,  is  one  source  of  his  charm  as  a 
writer.  It  stands  him  in  stead  of  other  qualities,  — 
of  real  unction  and  heartiness,  —  is,  perhaps,  these 
qualities  in  a  more  seedy  and  desiccated  state. 
Hearty,  in  the  fullest  sense,  he  was  not,  and  unctu 
ous  he  was  not,  yet  it  is  only  by  comparison  that 
we  miss  these  qualities  from  his  writings.  Perhaps 
he  would  say  that  we  should  not  expect  the  milk 
on  the  outside  of  the  cocoanut;  but  I  suspect  there 
is  an  actual  absence  of  milk  here,  though  there  is 
sweet  meat,  and  a  good,  hard  shell  to  protect  it. 
Good-nature  and  conciliation  were  not  among  his 
accomplishments,  and  yet  he  puts  his  reader  in  a 
genial  and  happy  frame  of  mind.  He  is  the  occa 
sion  of  unction  and  heartiness  in  others,  if  he  has 
not  them  in  himself.  He  says  of  himself,  with 
great  penetration:  "My  only  integral  experience  is 
in  my  vision.  I  see,  perchance,  with  more  integ 
rity  than  I  feel."  His  sympathies  lead  you  into 
narrow  quarters,  but  his  vision  takes  you  to  the 
hilltops.  As  regards  humanity  and  all  that  goes 
with  it,  he  was  like  an  inverted  cone,  and  grew 
broader  and  broader  the  farther  he  got  from  it. 
He  approached  things,  or  even  men,  but  very  little 
through  his  humanity  or  his  manliness.  How  de- 


HENRY    D.    THOREAU  23 

lightful  his  account  of  the  Canadian  wood-chopper 
in  "Walden,"  and  yet  he  sees  him  afar  off,  across 
an  impassable  gulf !  —  he  is  a  kind  of  Homeric  or 
Paphlagonian  man  to  him.  Very  likely  he  would 
not  have  seen  him  at  all  had  it  not  been  for  the 
classic  models  and  ideals  With  which  his  mind  was 
filled,  and  which  saw  for  him. 

Yet  Thoreau  doubtless  liked  the  flavor  of  strong, 
racy  men.  He  said  he  was  naturally  no  hermit, 
but  ready  enough  to  fasten  himself,  like  a  blood 
sucker  for  the  time,  to  any  full-blooded  man  that 
came  in  his  way;  and  he  gave  proof  of  this  when 
he  saw  and  recognized  the  new  poet,  Walt  Whit 
man.  Here  is  the  greatest  democrat  the  world  has 
seen,  he  said,  and  he  found  him  exhilarating  and 
encouraging,  while  yet  he  felt  somewhat  imposed 
upon  by  his  heartiness  and  broad  generalities.  As 
a  writer,  Thoreau  shows  all  he  is,  and  more.  No 
thing  is  kept  back;  greater  men  have  had  far  less 
power  of  statement.  His  thoughts  do  not  merely 
crop  out,  but  lie  upon  the  surface  of  his  pages. 
They  are  fragments;  there  is  no  more  than  you  see. 
It  is  not  the  edge  or  crown  of  the  native  rock,  but 
a  drift  bowlder.  He  sees  clearly,  thinks  swiftly, 
and  the  sharp  emphasis  and  decision  of  his  mind 
strew  his  pages  with  definite  and  striking  images 
and  ideas.  His  expression  is  never  sod-bound,  and 
you  get  its  full  force  at  once. 

One  of  his  chief  weapons  is  a  kind  of  restrained 
extravagance  of  statement,  a  compressed  exaggera 
tion  of  metaphor.  The  hyperbole  is  big,  but  it  is 


24  INDOOR   STUDIES 

gritty,  and  is  firmly  held.  Sometimes  it  takes  the 
form  of  paradox,  as  when  he  tells  his  friend  that 
he  needs  his  hate  as  much  as  his  love :  — 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  tell, 
Though  I  ponder  on  it  well, 
Which  were  easier  to  state, 
All  my  love  or  all  my  hate." 

Or  when  he  says,  in  "Walden:"  ''Our  manners 
have  been  corrupted  by  communication  with  the 
saints,"  and  the  like.  Sometimes  it  becomes  down 
right  brag,  as  when  he  says,  emphasizing  his  own 
preoccupation  and  indifference  to  events:  "I  would 
not  run  around  the  corner  to  see  the  world  blow 
up;"  or  again:  "Methinks  I  would  hear  with  in 
difference  if  a  trustworthy  messenger  were  to  inform 
me  that  the  sun  drowned  himself  last  night." 
Again  it  takes  an  impish  ironical  form,  as  when  he 
says:  "In  heaven  I  hope  to  bake  my  own  bread 
and  clean  my  own  linen."  Another  time  it  as 
sumes  a  half -quizzical,  half -humorous  turn,  as  when 
he  tells  one  of  his  correspondents  that  he  was 
so  warmed  up  in  getting  his  winter's  wood  that 
he  considered,  after  he  got  it  housed,  whether  he 
should  not  dispose  of  it  to  the  ash-man,  as  if  he 
had  extracted  all  its  heat.  Often  it  gives  only  an 
added  emphasis  to  his  expression,  as  when  he  says : 
"A  little  thought  is  sexton  to  all  the  world;"  or, 
"Some  circumstantial  evidence  is  very  strong,  as 
when  you  find  a  trout  in  the  milk ; "  but  its  best 
and  most  constant  office  is  to  act  as  a  kind  of  fer 
menting,  expanding  gas  that  lightens,  if  it  some- 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  25 

times  inflates,  his  page.  His  exaggeration  is  saved 
by  its  wit,  its  unexpectedness.  It  gives  a  whole 
some  jostle  and  shock  to  the  mind. 

Thoreau  was  not  a  racy  writer,  but  a  trenchant; 
not  nourishing  so  much  as  stimulating;  not  con 
vincing,  but  wholesomely  exasperating  and  arous 
ing,  which,  in  some  respects,  is  better.  There  is 
no  heat  in  him,  and  yet  in  reading  him  one  under 
stands  what  he  means  when  he  says  that,  sitting  by 
his  stove  at  night,  he  sometimes  had  thoughts  that 
kept  the  fire  warm.  I  think  the  mind  of  his  reader 
always  reacts  healthfully  and  vigorously  from  his 
most  rash  and  extreme  statements.  The  blood 
comes  to  the  surface  and  to  the  extremities  with  a 
bound.  He  is  the  best  of  counter-irritants  when 
he  is  nothing  else.  There  is  nothing  to  reduce  the 
tone  of  your  moral  and  intellectual  systems  in  Tho 
reau.  Such  heat  as  there  is  in  refrigeration,  as  he 
himself  might  say,  —  you  are  always  sure  of  that  in 
his  books. 

His  literary  art,  like  that  of  Emerson's,  is  in  the 
unexpected  turn  of  his  sentences.  Shakespeare 
says : — 

"  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection.** 

This  "strange  face"  Thoreau  would  have  at  all 
hazards,  even  if  it  was  a  false  face.  If  he  could 
not  state  a  truth  he  would  state  a  paradox,  which, 
however,  is  not  always  a  false  face.  He  must 
make  the  commonest  facts  and  occurrences  wear  a 
strange  and  unfamiliar  look.  The  commonplace  he 


26  INDOOR   STUDIES 

would  give  a  new  dress,  even  if  he  set  it  masquer 
ading.  But  the  reader  is  always  the  gainer  by  this 
tendency  in  him.  It  gives  a  fresh  and  novel  color 
ing  to  what  in  other  writers  would  prove  flat  and 
wearisome.  He  made  the  whole  world  interested 
in  his  private  experiment  at  Walden  Pond  by  the 
strange  and,  on  the  whole,  beaming  face  he  put 
upon  it.  Of  course,  this  is  always  more  or  less  the 
art  of  genius,  but  it  was  preeminently  the  art  of 
Thoreau.  We  are  not  buoyed  up  by  great  power, 
we  do  not  swim  lightly  as  in  deep  water,  but  we 
are  amused  and  stimulated,  and  now  and  then  posi- 
^tively  electrified. 

To  make  an  extreme  statement,  and  so  be  sure 
that  he  made  an  emphatic  one,  that  was  his  aim. 
Exaggeration  is  less  to  be  feared  than  dullness  and 
tameness.  The  far-fetched  is  good  if  you  fetch  it 
swift  enough;  you  must  make  its  heels  crack,  — jerk 
it  out  of  its  boots,  in  fact.  Cushions  are  good, 
provided  they  are  well  stuck  with  pins;  you  will 
be  sure  not  to  go  to  sleep  in  that  case.  Warm 
your  benumbed  hands  in  the  snow;  that  is  a  more 
wholesome  warmth  than  that  of  the  kitchen  stove. 
This  is  the  way  he  underscored  his  teachings. 
Sometimes  he  racked  his  bones  to  say  the  unsay- 
able.  His  mind  had  a  strong  gripe,  and  he  often 
brings  a  great  pressure  to  bear  upon  the  most  vague 
and  subtle  problems,  or  shadows  of  problems,  but 
he  never  quite  succeeds  to  my  satisfaction  in  con 
densing  bluing  from  the  air  or  from  the  Indian 
summer  haze,  any  more  than  he  succeeded  in  ex- 


HENIiY   D.   THOREAU  27 

tracting  health  and  longevity  from  water-gruel  and 
rye-meal. 

He  knew  what  an  exaggeration  he  was,  and  he 
went  about  it  deliberately.  He  says  to  one  of  his 

correspondents,  a  Mr.  B ,  whom  he  seems  to 

have  delighted  to  pummel  with  these  huge  boxing- 
gloves:  "I  trust  that  you  realize  what  an  exag- 
gerator  I  am,  —  that  I  lay  myself  out  to  exaggerate 
whenever  I  have  an  opportunity,  —  pile  Pelion 
upon  Ossa  to  reach  heaven  so.  Expect  no  trivial 
truth  from  me,  unless  I  am  on  the  witness-stand. 
I  will  come  as  near  to  lying  as  you  can  drive  a 
coach-and-f  our. " 

We  have  every  reason  to  be  thankful  that  he  was 
not  always  or  commonly  on  the  witness-stand.  The 
record  would  have  been  much  duller.  Eliminate 
from  him  all  his  exaggerations,  all  his  magnifying 
of  the  little,  all  his  inflation  of  bubbles,  etc.,  and 
you  make  sad  havoc  in  his  pages,  —  as  you  would, 
in  fact,  in  any  man's.  Of  course,  it  is  one  thing 
to  bring  the  distant  near,  and  thus  magnify  as  does 
the  telescope,  and  it  is  quite  another  thing  to  inflate 
a  pigmy  to  the  stature  of  a  giant  with  a  gaspipe. 
But  Thoreau  brings  the  stars  as  near  as  any  writer 
I  know  of,  and  if  he  sometimes  magnifies  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp,  too,  what  matters  it?  He  had  a  hard 
common  sense,  as  well  as  an  uncommon  sense,  and 
he  knows  well  when  he  is  conducting  you  to  the 
brink  of  one  of  his  astonishing  hyperboles,  and 
inviting  you  to  take  the  leap  with  him,  and,  what 
is  more,  he  knows  that  you  know  it.  Nobody  is 


28  INDOOR   STUDIES 

deceived,  and  the  game  is  well  played.  Writing 
to  a  correspondent  who  had  been  doing  some  big 
mountain-climbing,  he  says :  — 

"It  is  after  we  get  home  that  we  really  go  over 
the  mountain,  if  ever.  What  did  the  mountain 
say  ?  What  did  the  mountain  do  ?  I  keep  a  moun 
tain  anchored  off  eastward  a  little  way,  which  I 
ascend  in  my  dreams,  both  awake  and  asleep.  Its 
broad  base  spreads  over  a  village  or  two,  which  do 
not  know  it;  neither  does  it  know  them,  nor  do  I 
when  I  ascend  it.  I  can  see  its  general  outline  as 
plainly  now  in  my  mind  as  that  of  Wachusett.  I 
do  not  invent  in  the  least,  but  state  exactly  what 
I  see.  I  find  that  I  go  up  it  when  I  am  light- 
footed  and  earnest.  I  am  not  aware  that  a  single 
villager  frequents  it,  or  knows  of  it.  I  keep  this 
mountain  to  ride  instead  of  a  horse."  What  a 
saving  clause  is  that  last  one,  and  what  humor! 

The  bird  Thoreau  most  admired  was  Chanticleer, 
crowing  from  his  perch  in  the  morning.  He  says 
the  merit  of  that  strain  is  its  freedom  from  all 
plaintiveness.  Unless  our  philosophy  hears  the 
cock-crow  in  the  morning,  it  is  belated.  "It  is  an 
expression  of  the  health  and  soundness  of  Nature, 
—  a  brag  for  all  the  world."  "Who  has  not  be 
trayed  his  Master  many  times  since  he  last  heard 
that  note  ? "  "  The  singer  can  easily  move  us  to 
tears  or  to  laughter,  but  where  is  he  who  can  excite 
in  us  a  pure  morning  joy?  When  in  doleful 
dumps,  breaking  the  awful  stillness  of  our  wooden 
sidewalk  on  a  Sunday,  or  perchance  a  watcher  in 


HENRY    D.    THOREAU  29 

the  house  of  mourning,  I  hear  a  cockerel  crow,  far 
or  near,  I  think  to  myself,  *  There  is  one  of  us  well 
at  any  rate, '  and  with  a  sudden  gush  return  to  my 
senses." 

Thoreau  pitched  his  "  Walden  "  in  this  key ;  he 
claps  his  wings  and  gives  forth  a  clear,  saucy, 
cheery,  triumphant  note,  —  if  only  to  wake  his 
neighbors  up.  And  the  book  is  certainly  the  most 
delicious  piece  of  brag  in  literature.  There  is  no 
thing  else  like  it;  nothing  so  good,  certainly.  It 
is  a  challenge  and  a  triumph,  and  has  a  morning 
freshness  and  elan.  Read  the  chapter  on  his 
"  bean-field. "  One  wants  to  go  forthwith  and  plant 
a  field  with  beans,  and  hoe  them  barefoot.  It  is 
a  kind  of  celestial  agriculture.  "When  my  hoe 
tinkled  against  the  stones,  that  music  echoed  to  the 
woods  and  the  sky,  and  was  an  accompaniment  to 
my  labor  which  yielded  an  instant  and  immeasur 
able  crop.  It  was  no  longer  beans  that  I  hoed,  nor 
I  that  hoed  beans;  and  I  remembered  with  as  much 
pity  as  pride,  if  I  remembered  at  all,  my  acquaint 
ances  who  had  gone  to  the  city  to  attend  the  ora 
torios."  "On  gala  days  the  town  fires  its  great 
guns,  which  echo  like  pop-guns  to  these  woods, 
and  some  waif  of  martial  music  occasionally  pene 
trated  thus  far.  To  me,  away  there  in  my  bean- 
field  and  the  other  end  of  the  town,  the  big  guns 
sounded  as  if  a  puff-ball  had  burst;  and  when  there 
was  a  military  turn-out  of  which  I  was  ignorant,  I 
have  sometimes  had  a  vague  sense  all  day,  —  of 
some  sort  of  itching  and  disease  in  the  horizon,  as 


30  INDOOR   STUDIES 

if  some  eruption  would  break  out  there  soon,  either 
scarlatina  or  canker-rash,  — until  at  length  some 
more  favorable  puff  of  wind,  making  haste  over  the 
fields  and  up  the  Wayland  road,  brought  me  infor 
mation  of  the  c  trainers ! '  ; 

What  visitors  he  had,  too,  in  his  little  hut  — 
what  royal  company !  —  "  especially  in  the  morning, 
when  nobody  called."  "One  inconvenience  I  some 
times  experience  in  so  small  a  house,  —  the  difficulty 
of  getting  to  a  sufficient  distance  from  my  guest 
when  we  began  to  utter  the  big  thoughts  in  big 
words."  "The  bullet  of  your  thought  must  have 
overcome  its  lateral  and  ricochet  motion  and  fallen 
into  its  last  and  steady  course  before  it  reaches  the 
ear  of  the  hearer,  else  it  may  plow  out  again  through 
the  side  of  his  head."  He  bragged  that  Concord 
could  show  him  nearly  everything  worth  seeing  in 
the  world  or  in  nature,  and  that  he  did  not  need  to 
read  Dr.  Kane's  "Arctic  Voyages"  for  phenomena 
that  he  could  observe  at  home.  He  declined  all 
invitations  to  go  abroad,  because  he  should  then 
lose  so  much  of  Concord.  As  much  of  Paris,  or 
London,  or  Berlin  as  he  got,  so  much  of  Concord 
should  he  lose.  He  says  in  his  journal:  "It  would 
be  a  wretched  bargain  to  accept  the  proudest  Paris 
in  exchange  for  my  native  village.7'  "At  best, 
Paris  could  only  be  a  school  in  which  to  learn  to 
live  here,  —  a  stepping-stone  to  Concord,  a  school 
in  which  to  fit  for  this  university."  "The  sight 
of  a  marsh-hawk  in  Concord  meadows  is  worth  more 
to  me  than  the  entry  of  the  Allies  into  Paris." 


HENRY    D.    THOREAU  31 

This  is  very  Parisian  and  Victor  Hugoish,  except 
for  its  self-consciousness  and  the  playful  twinkle  in 
the  author's  eye. 

Thoreau  had  humor,  but  it  had  worked  a  little, 
—  it  was  not  quite  sweet;  a  vinous  fermentation 
had  taken  place  more  or  less  in  it.  There  was  too 
much  acid  for  the  sugar.  It  shows  itself  especially 
when  he  speaks  of  men.  How  he  disliked  the  aver 
age  social  and  business  man,  and  said  his  only 
resource  was  to  get  away  from  them!  He  was  sur 
prised  to  find  what  vulgar  fellows  they  were. 
"They  do  a  little  business  commonly  each  day,  in 
order  to  pay  their  board,  and  then  they  congregate 
in  sitting-rooms,  and  feebly  fabulate  and  paddle  in 
the  social  slush;  and  when  I  think  that  they  have 
sufficiently  relaxed,  and  am  prepared  to  see  them 
steal  away  to  their  shrines,  they  go  unashamed  to 
their  beds,  and  take  on  a  new  layer  of  sloth."  Me- 
thinks  there  is  a  drop  of  aquafortis  in  this  liquor. 
Generally,  however,  there  is  only  a  pleasant  acid  or 
sub-acid  flavor  to  his  humor,  as  when  he  refers  to 
a  certain  minister  who  spoke  of  God  as  if  he  en 
joyed  a  monopoly  of  the  subject;  or  when  he  says 
of  the  good  church-people  that  "they  show  the 
whites  of  their  eyes  on  the  Sabbath,  and  the  blacks 
all  the  rest  of  the  week."  He  says  the  greatest 
bores  who  visited  him  in  his  hut  by  Walden  Pond 
were  the  self-styled  reformers,  who  thought  that  he 
was  forever  singing,  — 

"This  is  the  house  that  I  built; 
This  is  the  man  that  lives  in  the  house  that  I  built. 


32  INDOOR   STUDIES 

But  they  did  not  know  that  the  third  line  was,  — 

These  are  the  folks  that  worry  the  man 
That  lives  in  the  house  that  I  built. 

I  did  not  fear  the  hen-harriers,  for  I  kept  no 
chickens,  but  I  feared  the  men-harriers  rather." 

What  sweet  and  serious  humor  in  that  passage  in 
"Walden"  wherein  he  protests  that  he  was  not 
lonely  in  his  hermitage :  — 

"  I  have  occasional  visits  in  the  long  winter  even 
ings,  when  the  snow  falls  fast  and  the  wind  howls 
in  the  wood,  from  an  old  settler  and  original  pro 
prietor,  who  is  reported  to  have  dug  Walden  Pond 
and  stoned  it,  and  fringed  it  with  pine-woods;  who 
tells  me  stories  of  old  time  and  of  new  eternity; 
and  between  us  we  manage  to  pass  a  cheerful  even 
ing  with  social  mirth  and  pleasant  views  of  things, 
even  without  apples  or  cider,  —  a  most  wise  and 
humorous  friend,  whom  I  love  much,  who  keeps 
himself  more  secret  than  ever  did  Goffe  or  Whal- 
ley;  and  though  he  is  thought  to  be  dead,  none 
can  show  where  he  is  buried.  An  elderly  dame, 
too,  dwells  in  my  neighborhood,  invisible  to  most 
persons,  in  whose  odorous  herb-garden  I  love  to 
stroll  sometimes,  gathering  simples  and  listening  to 
her  fables ;  for  she  has  a  genius  of  unequaled  fertil 
ity,  and  her  memory  runs  back  farther  than  my 
thology,  and  she  can  tell  me  the  original  of  every 
fable,  and  on  what  fact  every  one  is  founded,  for 
the  incidents  occurred  when  she  was  young.  A 
ruddy  and  lusty  old  dame,  who  delights  in  all 
weathers  and  seasons,  and  is  likely  to  outlive  all 
her  children  yet." 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  33 

Emerson  says  Thoreau's  determination  on  natural 
history  was  organic,  but  it  was  his  determination 
on  supernatural  history  that  was  organic.  Natural 
history  was  but  one  of  the  doors  through  which  he 
sought  to  gain  admittance  to  this  inner  and  finer 
heaven  of  things.  He  hesitated  to  call  himself  a 
naturalist;  probably  even  poet-naturalist  would  not 
have  suited  him.  He  says  in  his  journal:  "The 
truth  is,  I  am  a  mystic,  a  transcendentalist,  and  a 
natural  philosopher  to  boot,"  and  the  least  of  these 
is  the  natural  philosopher.  He  says:  "Man  can 
not  afford  to  be  a  naturalist,  to  look  at  Nature 
directly,  but  only  with  the  side  of  his  eye.  He 
must  look  through  and  beyond  her.  To  look  at  her 
is  as  fatal  as  to  look  at  the  head  of  Medusa.  It 
turns  the  man  of  science  to  stone."  It  is  not  look 
ing  at  Nature  that  turns  the  man  of  science  to  stone, 
but  looking  at  his  dried  and  labeled  specimens,  and 
his  dried  and  labeled  theories  of  her.  Thoreau 
always  sought  to  look  through  arid  beyond  her,  and 
he  missed  seeing  much  there  was  in  her;  the  jealous 
goddess  had  her  revenge.  I  do  not  make  this 
remark  as  a  criticism,  but  to  account  for  his  failure 
to  make  any  new  or  valuable  contribution  to  natural 
history.  He  did  not  love  Nature  for  her  own  sake, 
or  the  bird  and  the  flower  for  their  own  sakes,  or 
with  an  unmixed  and  disinterested  love,  as  Gilbert 
White  did,  for  instance,  but  for  what  he  could 
make  out  of  them.  He  says:  "The  ultimate  ex 
pression  or  fruit  of  any  created  thing  is  a  fine  efflu 
ence  which  only  the  most  ingenuous  worshiper  per' 


34  INDOOR   STUDIES 

ceives  at  a  reverent  distance  from  its  surface  even."1 
This  "  fine  effluence  "  he  was  always  reaching  after, 
and  often  grasping  or  inhaling.  This  is  the  mythi 
cal  hound  and  horse  and  turtle-dove  which  he  says 
in  "Walden"  he  long  ago  lost,  and  has  been  on 
their  trail  ever  since.  He  never  abandons  the 
search,  and  in  every  woodchuck-hole  or  muskrat 
den,  in  retreat  of  bird,  or  squirrel,  or  mouse,  or 
fox  that  he  pries  into,  in  every  walk  and  expedition 
to  the  fields  or  swamps  or  to  distant  woods,  in 
every  spring  note  and  call  that  he  listens  to  so 
patiently,  he  hopes  to  get  some  clew  to  his  lost 
treasures,  to  the  effluence  that  so  provokingly  eludes 
him. 

Hence,  when  we  regard  Thoreau  simply  as  an 
observer  or  as  a  natural  historian,  there  have  been 
better,  though  few  so  industrious  and  persistent. 
He  was  up  and  out  at  all  'hours  of  the  day  and 
night,  and  in  all  seasons  and  weathers,  year  in  and 
year  out,  and  yet  he  saw  and  recorded  nothing  new. 
It  is  quite  remarkable.  He  says  in  his  journal 
that  he  walked  half  of  each  day,  and  kept  it  up 
perhaps  for  twenty  years  or  more.  Ten  years  of 
persistent  spying  and  inspecting  of  nature,  and  no 
new  thing  found  out;  and  so  little  reported  that 
is  in  itself  interesting,  that  is,  apart  from  his  de 
scription  of  it.  I  cannot  say  that  there  was  any 
felicitous  and  happy  seeing;  there  was  no  inspira 
tion  of  the  eye,  certainly  not  in  the  direction  of 
natural  history.  He  has  added  no  new  line  or 
l  Early  Spring  in  Massachusetts,  p.  83. 


HENRY   D.   THOREAU  35 

touch  to  the  portrait  of  bird  or  beast  that  I  can 
recall,  —  no  important  or  significant  fact  to  their 
lives.  What  he  saw  in  this  field  everybody  may 
see  who  looks ;  it  is  patent.  He  had  not  the  detec 
tive  eye  of  the  great  naturalist;  he  did  not  catch 
the  clews  and  hints  dropped  here  and  there,  the 
quick,  flashing  movements,  the  shy  but  significant 
gestures  by  which  new  facts  are  disclosed,  mainly 
because  he  was  not  looking  for  them.  /His  eye  was. 
not  penetrating  and  interpretive.  It/  was  full  of 
speculation;  it  was  sophisticated  with  literature, 
sophisticated  with  Concord,  sophisticated  with  him 
self.  I  His  mood  was  subjective  rather  than  objec 
tive.  He  was  more  intent  on  the  natural  history 
of  his  own  thought  than  on  that  of  the  bird.  To 
the  last,  his  ornithology  was  not  quite  sure,  not 
quite  trustworthy.  In  his  published  journal  he 
sometimes  names  the  wrong  bird;  and  what  short 
work  a  naturalist  would  have  made  of  his  night- 
warbler,  which  Emerson  reports  Thoreau  had  been 
twelve  years  trying  to  identify !  It  was  perhaps  his 
long-lost  turtle-dove,  in  some  one  of  its  disguises. 
From  his  journal  it  would  seem  that  he  was  a  long 
time  puzzled  to  distinguish  the  fox-colored  sparrow 
from  the  tree  or  Canadian  sparrow,  —  a  very  easy 
task  to  one  who  has  an  eye  for  the  birds.  But  he 
was  looking  too  intently  for  a  bird  behind  the  bird, 
—  for  a  mythology  to  shine  through  his  ornithology. 
"The  song  sparrow  and  the  transient  fox-colored 
sparrow,  —  have  they  brought  me  no  message  this 
year?  Is  not  the  coming  of  the  fox-colored  spar- 


36  INDOOR   STUDIES 

row  something  more  earnest  and  significant  than 
I  have  dreamed  of?  Have  I  heard  what  this  tiny 
passenger  has  to  say  while  it  flits  thus  from  tree 
to  tree?"  "I  love  the  birds  and  beasts  because 
they  are  my thologically  in  earnest. " l 

If  he  had  had  the  same  eye  for  natural  history 
he  possessed  for  arrow-heads,  what  new  facts  he 
would  have  disclosed!  But  he  was  looking  for 
arrow-heads.  He  had  them  in  his  mind ;  he  thought 
arrow-heads ;  he  was  an  arrow-head  himself,  and 
these  relics  fairly  kicked  themselves  free  of  the 
mould  to  catch  his  eye. 

"It  is  surprising  how  thickly-strewn  our  soil  is 
with  arrow-heads.  I  never  see  the  surface  broken 
in  sandy  places  but  I  think  of  them.  I  find  them 
on  all  sides,  not  only  in  corn,  grain,  potato,  and 
bean  fields,  but  in  pastures  and  woods,  by  wood- 
chucks'  holes  and  pigeon  beds,  and,  as  to-night, 
in  a  pasture  where  a  restless  cow  had  pawed  the 
ground. " 

Thoreau  was  a  man  eminently  "preoccupied  of 
his  own  soul."  He  had  no  self-abandonment,  no 
self-f orgetfulness ;  he  could  not  give  himself  to  the 
birds  or  animals:  they  must  surrender  to  him.  He 
says  to  one  of  his  correspondents:  "Whether  he 
sleeps  or  wakes,  whether  he  runs  or  walks,  whether 
he  uses  a  microscope  or  a  telescope,  or  his  naked 
eye,  a  man  never  discovers  anything,  never  over 
takes  anything,  or  leaves  anything  behind,  but  him 
self."  This  is  half  true  of  some;  it  is  wholly  true 

1  Early  Spring  in  Massachusetts,  p.  286. 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  37 

of  others.  It  is  wholly  true  of  Thoreau.  Nature 
was  the  glass  in  which  he  saw  himself.  He  says  the 
partridge  loves  peas,  but  not  those  that  go  into  the 
pot  with  her !  All  the  peas  Thoreau  loved  had  been 
in  the  pot  with  him  and  were  seasoned  by  him. 

I  trust  I  do  not  in  the  least  undervalue  Thoreau 's 
natural  history  notes;  I  only  wish  there  were  more 
of  them.  What  makes  them  so  valuable-and  charm 
ing  is  his  rare  descriptive  powers,  He  could  give 
the  simple  fact  with  the  freshest  and  finest  poetic 
bloom  upon  it.  If  there  is  little  or  no  felicitous 
seeing  in  Thoreau,  there  is  felicitous  description: 
he  does  not  see  what  another  would  not,  but  he 
describes  what  he  sees  as  few  others  can;  his  happy 
literary  talent  makes  up  for  the  poverty  of  his 
observation.  That  is,  we  are  never  surprised  at 
what  he  sees,  but  are  surprised  and  tickled  at  the 
way  he  tells  what  he  sees.  He  notes,  for  instance, 
the  arrival  of  the  high-hole  in  spring;  we  all  note 
it,  every  schoolboy  notes  it,  but  who  has  described 
it  as  Thoreau  does:  "The  loud  peop  of  a  pigeon 
woodpecker  is  heard,  and  anon  the  prolonged  loud 
and  shrill  cackle  calling  the  thin-wooded  hillsides 
and  pastures  to  life.  It  is  like  the  note  of  an  alarm- 
clock  set  last  fall  so  as  to  wake  Nature  up  at  exactly 
this  date,  —  up,  up,  up,  up,  up,  up,  up,  up,  up, 
up!"  He  says:  "The  note  of  the  first  bluebird 
in  the  air  answers  to  the  purling  rill  of  melted  snow 
beneath.  It  is  evidently  soft  and  soothing,  and,  as 
surely  as  the  thermometer,  indicates  a  higher  tem 
perature.  It  is  the  accent  of  the  south  wind,  its 
vernacular. " 


38  INDOOR   STUDIES 

Often  a  single  word  or  epithet  of  his  tells  the 
whole  story.  Thus  he  says,  speaking  of  the  music 
of  the  blackbird,  that  it  has  a  "split- whistle; ;J  the 
note  of  the  red-shouldered  starling  is  "gurgle-ee." 
Looking  out  of  his  window  one  March  day,  he  says 
he  cannot  see  the  heel  of  a  single  snowbank  any 
where.  He  does  not  seem  to  have  known  that  the 
shrike  sings-  in  the  fall  and  winter  as  well  as  in  the 
spring;  and  is  he  entirely  sure  he  saw  a  muskrat 
building  its  house  in  March  (the  fall  is  the  time 
they  build) ;  or  that  he  heard  the  whip-poor-will 
singing  in  September;  or  that  the  woodchuck  dines 
principally  upon  crickets  ?  With  what  patience  and 
industry  he  watched  things  for  a  sign !  From  his 
journal  it  would  appear  that  Thoreau  kept  nature 
about  Concord  under  a  sort  of  police  surveillance 
the  year  round.  He  shadowed  every  flower  and 
bird  and  musquash  that  appeared.  His  vigilance 
was  unceasing ;  not  a  mouse  or  a  squirrel  must  leave 
its  den  without  his  knowledge.  If  the  birds  or 
frogs  were  not  on  hand  promptly  at  his  spring  roll- 
call,  he  would  know  the  reason;  he  would  look 
them  up;  he  would  question  his  neighbors.  He 
was  up  in  the  morning  and  off  to  some  favorite  haunt 
earlier  than  the  day  -  laborers ;  and  he  chronicled  his 
observations  on  the  spot,  as  if  the  case  was  to  be 
tried  in  court  the  next  day  and  he  was  the  princi 
pal  witness.  He  watched  the  approach  of  spring 
as  a  doctor  watches  the  development  of  a  critical 
case.  He  felt  the  pulse  of  the  wind  and  the  tem 
perature  of  the  day  at  all  hours.  He  examined  the 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  39 

plants  growing  under  water,  and  noted  the  radical 
leaves  of  various  weeds  that  keep  green  all  winter 
under  the  snow.  He  felt  for  them  with  benumbed 
fingers  amid  the  wet  and  the  snow.  The  first  sight 
of  bare  ground  and  of  the  red  earth  excites  him. 
The  fresh  meadow  spring  odor  was  to  him  like  the 
fragrance  of  tea  to  an  old  tea-drinker.  In  early 
March  he  goes  to  the  Corner  Spring  to  see  the  tufts 
of  green  grass,  or  he  inspects  the  minute  lichens 
that  spring  from  the  bark  of  trees.  "It  is  short 
commons,"  he  says,  "and  innutritious. "  He  brings 
home  the  first  frog-spittle  he  finds  in  a  ditch  and 
studies  it  in  a  tumbler  of  water.  The  first  water- 
beetle  that  appears  he  makes  a  note  of,  and  the  first 
skunk-cabbage  that  thrusts  its  spathe  up  through 
the  mould  is  of  more  interest  to  him  than  the  latest 
news  from  Paris  or  London.  "I  go  to  look  for 
mud- turtles  in  Hey  wood's  meadow,"  he  says,  March 
23,  1853.  The  first  water-fowl  that  came  in  the 
spring  he  stalked  like  a  pot-hunter,  crawling  through 
the  swamps  and  woods  or  over  a  hill  on  his  stomach 
to  have  a  good  shot  at  them  with  his  —  journal. 
He  is  determined  Nature  shall  not  get  one  day  the 
start  of  him;  and  yet  he  is  obliged  to  confess  that 
"no  mortal  is  alert  enough  to  be  present  at  the  first 
dawn  of  spring ; "  still  he  will  not  give  up  trying. 
"Can  you  be  sure,"  he  says,  "that  you  have  heard 
the  first  frog  in  the  township  croak  ?  " '  A  lady 
offered  him  the  life  of  Dr.  Chalmers  to  read,  but  he 
would  not  promise.  The  next  day  she  was  heard 
through  a  partition  shouting  to  some  one  who  was 


40  INDOOR   STUDIES 

deaf:  "Think  of  it,  — he  stood  half  an  hour  to-day 
to  hear  the  frogs  croak,  and  he  wouldn't  read  the 
life  of  Chalmers ! "  He  would  go  any  number  of 
miles  to  interview  a  muskrat  or  a  woodchuck,  or  to 
keep  an  "appointment  with  an  oak-tree;"  but  he 
records  in  his  journal  that  he  rode  a  dozen  miles 
one  day  with  his  employer,  keeping  a  profound 
silence  almost  all  the  way.  "I  treated  him  simply 
as  if  he  had  bronchitis  and  could  not  speak,  — just 
as  I  would  a  sick  man,  a  crazy  man,  or  an  idiot." 

Thoreau  seems  to  have  been  aware  of  his  defect 
on  the  human  side.  He  says:  "If  I  am  too  cold 
for  human  friendship,  I  trust  I  shall  not  soon  be 
too  cold  for  natural  influences ; "  and  then  he  goes 
on  with  this  doubtful  statement:  "It  appears  to 
be  a  law  that  you  cannot  have  a  deep  sympathy 
with  both  man  and  nature.  Those  qualities  which 
bring  you  near  to  the  one  estrange  you  from  the 
other."  One  day  he  met  a  skunk  in  the  field,  and 
he  describes  its  peculiar  gait  exactly  when  he  says: 
"It  runs,  even  when  undisturbed,  with  a  singular 
teter  or  undulation,  like  the  walking  of  a  Chinese 
lady."  He  ran  after  the  animal  to  observe  it,  keep 
ing  out  of  the  reach  of  its  formidable  weapon,  and 
when  it  took  refuge  in  the  wall  he  interviewed  it 
at  his  leisure.  If  it  had  been  a  man  or  a  woman 
he  had  met,  he  would  have  run  the  other  way. 
Thus  he  went  through  the  season,  Nature's  reporter, 
taking  down  the  words  as  they  fell  from  her  lips, 
and  distressed  if  a  sentence  was  missed. 

The  Yankee  thrift  and  enterprise,  that  he  had  so 


HENRY   D.    THOREAU  41 

little  patience  with  in  his  neighbors,  he  applied  to 
his  peculiar  ends.  He  took  the  day  and  the  season 
by  the  foretop.  "How  many  mornings,"  he  says 
in  "  Walden,"  "summer  and  winter,  before  yet  any 
neighbor  was  stirring  about  his  business,  have  I 
been  about  mine ! "  He  had  an  eye  to  the  main 
chance,  to  a  good  investment.  He  probed  the 
swamps  like  a  butter-buyer,  he  sampled  the  plants 
and  the  trees  and  lichens  like  a  tea- taster.  He 
made  a  burning-glass  of  a  piece  of  ice;  he  made 
sugar  from  a  pumpkin  and  from  the  red  maple,  and 
wine  from  the  sap  of  the  black  birch,  and  boiled 
rock-tripe  for  an  hour  and  tried  it  as  food.  If  he 
missed  any  virtue  or  excellence  in  these  things  or 
in  anything  in  his  line,  or  any  suggestion  to  his 
genius,  he  felt  like  a  man  who  had  missed  a  good 
bargain.  Yet  he  sometimes  paused  in  this  peeping 
and  prying  into  nature,  and  cast  a  regretful  look 
backward.  "Ah,  those  youthful  days,"  he  says 
in  his  journal,  under  date  of  March  30,  1853,  "are 
they  never  to  return  ?  when  the  walker  does  not  too 
enviously  observe  particulars,  but  sees,  hears,  scents, 
tastes,  and  feels  only  himself,  the  phenomena  that 
showed  themselves  in  him,  his  expanding  body,  his 
intellect  and  heart!  No  worm  or  insect,  quadruped 
or  bird,  confined  his  view,  but  the  unbounded  uni 
verse  was  his.  A  bird  has  now  become  a  mote  in 
his  eye."  Then  he  proceeds  to  dig  out  a  wood- 
chuck. 

In    "Walden"    Thoreau    pretends   to   quote    the 
following  passage  from  the  Gulistan,  or  liose  Gar- 


42  INDOOR   STUDIES 

den  of  Sadi  of  Shiraz,  with  an  eye  to  its  application 
to  his  own  case ;  but  as  he  evidently  found  it  not 
in,  but  under,  Sadi's  lines,  it  has  an  especial  sig 
nificance,  and  may  fitly  close  this  paper :  — 

"They  asked  a  wise  man,  saying:  '  Of  the  many 
celebrated  trees  which  the  Most  High  God  has 
created,  lofty  and  umbrageous,  they  call  none  azad, 
or  free,  excepting  the  cypress,  which  bears  no  fruit; 
what  mystery  is  there  in  this  ? '  He  replied :  '  Each 
has  its  appropriate  produce  and  appointed  season, 
during  the  continuance  of  which  it  is  fresh  and 
blooming,  and  during  their  absence  dry  and  with 
ered:  to  neither  of  which  states  is  the  cypress 
exposed,  being  always  flourishing;  and  of  this  na 
ture  are  the  azads,  or  religious  independents.  Fix 
not  thy  heart  on  that  which  is  transitory;  for  the 
Dijlah  or  Tigris  will  continue  to  flow  through  Bag 
dad  after  the  race  of  caliphs  is  extinct :  if  thy  hand 
has  plenty,  be  liberal  as  the  date-tree;  but  if  it 
affords  nothing  to  give  away,  be  an  azad,  or  free 
man,  like  the  cypress. '  " 


n 

SCIENCE   AND   LITERATURE 

TNTERESTED  as  I  am  in  all  branches  of  natural 
-*-  science,  and  great  as  is  my  debt  to  these  things, 
yet  I  suppose  my  interest  in  nature  is  not  strictly 
a  scientific  one.  I  seldom,  for  instance,  go  into  a 
natural  history  museum  without  feeling  as  if  I  were 
attending  a  funeral.  There  lie  the  birds  and  ani 
mals  stark  and  stiff,  or  else,  what  is  worse,  stand 
up  in  ghastly  mockery  of  life,  and  the  people  pass 
along  and  gaze  at  them  through  the  glass  with  the 
same  cold  and  unprofitable  curiosity  that  they  gaze 
upon  the  face  of  their  dead  neighbor  in  his  coffin. 
The  fish  in  the  water,  the  bird  in  the  tree,  the 
animal  in  the  fields  or  woods,  what  a  different  im 
pression  they  make  upon  us! 

To  the  great  body  of  mankind,  the  view  of  nature 
presented  through  the  natural  sciences  has  a  good 
deal  of  this  lifeless  funereal  character  of  the  speci 
mens  in  the  museum.  It  is  dead  dissected  nature, 
a  cabinet  of  curiosities  carefully  labeled  and  classi 
fied.  "  Kvcry  creature  sundered  from  its  natural 
surroundings,"  says  Goethe,  "and  brought  into 
strange  company,  makes  an  unpleasant  impression 
on  us,  which  disappears  only  by  habit."  Why  is 


44  INDOOR   STUDIES 

it  that  the  hunter,  the  trapper,  the  traveler,  the 
farmer,  or  even  the  schoolboy,  can  often  tell  us 
more  of  what  we  want  to  know  about  the  bird,  the 
flower,  the  animal,  than  the  professor  in  all  the 
pride  of  his  nomenclature?  Why,  but  that  these 
give  us  a  glimpse  of  the  live  creature  as  it  stands 
related  to  other  things,  to  the  whole  life  of  nature, 
and  to  the  human  heart,  while  the  latter  shows  it 
to  us  as  it  stands  related  to  some  artificial  system 
of  human  knowledge. 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us,"  said  Words 
worth,  and  he  intimated  that  our  science  and  our 
civilization  had  put  us  "  out  of  tune  "  with  nature. 

"Great  God!  I 'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn, 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the-sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

To  the  scientific  mind  such  language  is  simply 
nonsense,  as  are  those  other  lines  of  the  bard  of 
Grasmere,  in  which  he  makes  his  poet  — 

"  Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 
The  things  which  others  understand." 

Enjoyment  is  less  an  end  in  science  than  it  is  in 
literature.  A  poem  or  other  work  of  the  imagina 
tion  that  failed  to  give  us  the  joy  of  the  spirit 
would  be  of  little  value,  but  from  a  work  of  science 
we  expect  only  the  satisfaction  which  comes  with 
increased  stores  of  exact  knowledge. 

Yet  it  may  be  questioned  if  the  distrust  with 
which  science  and  literature  seem  to  be  more  and 


AND    LITERATURE  45 

more  regarding  each  other  in  our  day  is  well 
founded.  That  such  distrust  exists  is  very  evident. 
Professor  Huxley  taunts  the  poets  with  "sensual 
caterwauling,"  and  the  poets  taunt  the  professor 
and  his  ilk  with  gross  materialism. 

Science  is  said  to  be  democratic,  its  aims  and 
methods  in  keeping  with  the  great  modern  move 
ment;  while  literature  is  alleged  to  be  aristocratic 
in  its  spirit  and  tendencies.  Literature  is  for  the 
few;  science  is  for  the  many.  Hence  their  oppo 
sition  in  this  respect. 

Science  is  founding  schools  and  colleges  from 
which  the  study  of  literature,  as  such,  is  to  be 
excluded;  and  it  is  becoming  clamorous  for  the 
positions  occupied  by  the  classics  in  the  curriculum 
of  the  older  institutions.  As  a  reaction  against 
the  extreme  partiality  for  classical  studies,  the  study 
of  names  instead  of  things,  which  has  so  long  been 
shown  in  our  educational  system,  this  new  cry  is 
wholesome  and  good;  but  so  far  as  it  implies  that 
science  is  capable  of  taking  the  place  of  the  great 
literatures  as  an  instrument  of  high  culture,  it  is 
mischievous  and  misleading. 

About  the  intrinsic  value  of  science,  its  value  as 
a  factor  in  our  civilization,  there  can  be  but  one 
opinion;  but  about  its  value  to  the  scholar,  the 
thinker,  the  man  of  letters,  there  is  room  for  very 
divergent  views.  It  is  certainly  true  that  the  great 
ages  of  the  world  have  not  been  ages  of  exact  sci 
ence;  nor  have  the  great  literatures,  in  which  so 
much  of  the  power  and  vitality  of  the  race  have 


46  INDOOR   STUDIES 

been  stored,  sprung  from  minds  which  held  correct 
views  of  the  physical  universe.  Indeed,  if  the 
growth  and  maturity  of  man's  moral  and  intellectual 
stature  were  a  question  of  material  appliances  or 
conveniences,  or  of  accumulated  stores  of  exact 
knowledge,  the  world  of  to-day  ought  to  be  able 
to  show  more  eminent  achievements  in  all  fields  of 
human  activity  than  ever  before.  But  this  it  can 
not  do.  Shakespeare  wrote  his  plays  for  people 
who  believed  in  witches,  and  probably  believed  in 
them  himself;  Dante's  immortal  poem  could  never 
have  been  produced  in  a  scientific  age.  Is  it  likely 
that  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  would  have  been  any 
more  precious  to  the  race,  or  their  influence  any 
deeper,  had  they  been  inspired  by  correct  views  of 
physical  science  1 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  write  a  diatribe  against 
the  physical  sciences.  I  would  as  soon  think  of 
abusing  the  dictionary.  But  as  the  dictionary  can 
hardly  be  said  to  be  an  end  in  itself,  so  I  would 
indicate  that  the  final  value  of  physical  science  is  its 
capability  to  foster  in  us  noble  ideals,  and  to  lead 
us  to  new  and  larger  views  of  moral  and  spiritual 
truths.  The  extent  to  which  it  is  able  to  do  this 
measures  its  value  to  the  spirit,  —  measures  its  value 
to  the  educator. 

That  the  great  sciences  can  do  this,  that  they  are 
capable  of  becoming  instruments  of  pure  culture, 
instruments  to  refine  and  spiritualize  the  whole 
moral  and  intellectual  nature,  is  no  doubt  true;  but 
that  they  can  ever  usurp  the  place  of  the  huniani- 


SCIENCE   AND   LITERATURE  47 

ties  or  general  literature  in  this  respect  is  one  of 
those  mistaken  notions  which  seem  to  be  gaining 
ground  so  fast  in  our  time. 

Can  there  be  any  doubt  that  contact  with  a  great 
character,  a  great  soul,  through  literature,  immensely 
surpasses  in  educational  value,  in  moral  and  spirit 
ual  stimulus,  contact  with  any  of  the  forms  or  laws 
of  physical  nature  through  science?  Is  there  not 
something  in  the  study  of  the  great  literatures  of 
the  world  that  opens  the  mind,  inspires  it  with 
noble  sentiments  and  ideals,  cultivates  and  develops 
the  intuitions,  and  reaches  and  stamps  the  character, 
to  an  extent  that  is  hopelessly  beyond  the  reach  of 
science  ?  They  add  something  to  the  mind  that  is 
like  leaf-mould  to  the  soil,  like  the  contribution 
from  animal  and  vegetable  life  and  from  the  rains 
and  the  dews.  Until  science  is  mixed  with  emo 
tion,  and  appeals  to  the  heart  and  imagination,  it 
is  like  dead  inorganic  matter;  and  when  it  becomes 
so  mixed  and  so  transformed  it  is  literature. 

The  college  of  the  future  will  doubtless  lay  much 
less  stress  upon  the  study  of  the  ancient  languages; 
but  the  time  thus  gained  will  not  be  devoted  to  the 
study  of 'the  minutiaB  of  physical  science,  as  contem 
plated  by  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  but  to  the  study  of 
man  himself,  his  deeds  and  his  thoughts,  as  illus 
trated  in  history  and  embodied  in  the  great  litera 
tures. 

"Microscopes  and  telescopes,  properly  consid 
ered,"  says  Goethe,  "put  our  human  eyes  out  of 
their  natural,  healthy,  and  profitable  point  of  view." 


48  INDOOR    STUDIES 

By  which  remark  he  probably  meant  that  artificial 
knowledge  obtained  by  the  aid  of  instruments,  and 
therefore  by  a  kind  of  violence  and  inquisition,  a 
kind  of  dissecting  and  dislocating  process,  is  less 
innocent,  is  less  sweet  and  wholesome,  than  natural 
knowledge,  the  fruits  of  our  natural  faculties  and 
perceptions.  And  the  reason  is  that  physical  sci 
ence  pursued  in  and  for  itself  results  more  and  more 
in  barren  analysis,  becomes  more  and  more  sepa 
rated  from  human  and  living  currents  and  forces,  — 
in  fact,  becomes  more  and  more  mechanical,  and 
rests  in  a  mechanical  conception  of  the  universe. 
And  the  universe,  considered  as  a  machine,  how 
ever  scientific  it  may  be,  has  neither  value  to  the 
spirit  nor  charm"  to  the  imagination. 

The  man  of  to-day  is  fortunate  if  he  can  attain 
as  fresh  and  lively  a  conception  of  things  as  did 
Plutarch  and  Virgil.  How  alive  the  ancient  ob 
servers  made  the  world!  They  conceived  of  every 
thing  as  living,  being,  —  the  primordial  atoms,  space, 
form,  the  earth,  the  sky.  The  stars  and  planets 
they  thought  of  as  requiring  nutriment,  and  as 
breathing  or  exhaling.  To  them,  fire  did  not  con 
sume  things,  but  fed  or  preyed  upon  them,  like  an 
animal.  It  was  not  so  much  false  science,  as  a 
livelier  kind  of  science,  which  made  them  regard  the 
peculiar  quality  of  anything  as  a  spirit.  Thus  there 
was  a  spirit  in  snow;  when  the  snow  melted  the 
spirit  escaped.  This  spirit,  says  Plutarch,  "  is  no 
thing  but  the  sharp  point  and  finest  scale  of  the  con 
gealed  substance,  endued  with  a  virtue  of  cutting 


SCIENCE   AND  LITERATURE  49 

and  dividing  not  only  the  flesh,  but  also  silver  and 
brazen  vessels."  "Therefore  this  piercing  spirit, 
like  a  flame"  (how  much,  in  fact,  frost  is  like 
flame !)  "  seizing  upon  those  that  travel  in  the  snow, 
seems  to  burn  their  outsides,  and  like  fire  to  enter 
and  penetrate  the  flesh."  There  is  a  spirit  of  salt, 
too,  and  of  heat,  and  of  trees.  The  sharp,  acrimo 
nious  quality  of  the  fig-tree  bespeaks  of  a  fierce  and 
strong  spirit  which  it  darts  out  into  objects. 

To  the  ancient  philosophers,  the  eye  was  not  a 
mere  passive  instrument,  but  sent  forth  a  spirit,  or 
fiery  visual  rays,  that  went  to  cooperate  with  the 
rays  from  outward  objects.  Hence  the  power  of 
the  eye,  and  its  potency  in  love  matters.  "The 
mutual  looks  of  nature's  beauties,  or  that  which 
comes  from  the  eye,  whether  light  or  a  stream  of 
spirits,  melt  and  dissolve  the  lovers  with  a  pleasing 
pain,  which  they  call  the  bitter-sweet  of  love." 
"There  is  such  a  communication,  such  a  flame  raised 
by  one  glance,  that  those  must  be  altogether  un 
acquainted  with  love  that  wonder  at  the  Median 
naphtha  that  takes  fire  at  a  distance  from  the  flame. " 
"Water  from  the  heavens,"  says  Plutarch,  "is  light 
and  aerial,  and,  being  mixed  with  spirit,  is  the 
quicker  passed  and  elevated  into  the  plants  by  rea 
son  of  its  tenuity."  Rain- water,  he  further  says, 
"is  bred  in  the  air  and  wind,  and  falls  pure  and 
sincere. "  Science  could  hardly  give  an  explanation 
as  pleasing  to  the  fancy  as  that.  And  it  is  true 
enough,  too.  Mixed  with  spirit,  or  the  gases  of  the 
air,  and  falling  pure  and  sincere,  is  undoubtedly  the 


50  INDOOR   STUDIES 

main  secret  of  the  matter.  He  said  the  ancients 
hesitated  to  put  out  a  fire  because  of  the  relation  it 
.had  to  the  sacred  and  eternal  flame.  "Nothing," 
he  says,  "bears  such  a  resemblance  to  an  animal  as 
fire.  It  is  moved  and  nourished  by  itself,  and  by 
its  brightness,  like  the  soul,  discovers  and  makes 
everything  apparent;  but  in  its  quenching  it  prin 
cipally  shows  some  power  that  seems  to  proceed 
from  our  vital  principle,  for  it  makes  a  noise  and 
resists  like  an  animal  dying  or  violently  slaugh 
tered." 

The  feeling,  too,  with  which  the  old  philosophers 
looked  upon  the  starry  heavens  is  less  antagonistic 
to  science  than  it  is  welcome  and  suggestive  to  the 
human  heart.  Says  Plutarch  in  his  "Sentiments 
of  Nature  Philosophers  delighted  in:  "  "To  men,  the 
heavenly  bodies  that  are  so  visible  did  give  the 
knowledge  of  the  Deity;  when  they  contemplated 
that  they  are  the  causes  of  so  great  an  harmony, 
that  they  regulate  day  and  night,  winter  and  sum 
mer,  by  their  rising  and  setting,  and  likewise  con 
sidered  these  things  which  by  their  influence  in  the 
earth  do  receive  a  being  and  do  likewise  fructify. 
It  was  manifest  to  men  that  the  Heaven  was  the 
father  of  those  things,  and  the  Earth  the  mother: 
that  the  Heaven  was  the  father  is  clear,  since  from 
the  heavens  there  is  the  pouring  down  of  waters, 
which  have  their  spermatic  faculty;  the  Earth  the 
mother  because  she  receives  them  and  brings  forth. 
Likewise  men,  considering  that  the  stars  are  run 
ning  in  a  perpetual  motion,  and  that  the  sun  and 


SCIENCE    AND   LITERATURE  51 

moon  give  us  the  power  to  view  and  contemplate, 
they  call  them  all  Gods." 

The  ancients  had  that  kind  of  knowledge  which 
'the  heart  gathers;  we  have  in  superabundance  that 
kind  of  knowledge  which  the  head  gathers.  If  much 
of  theirs  was  made  up  of  mere  childish  delusions, 
how  much  of  ours  is  made  up  of  hard,  barren,  and 
unprofitable  details,  —  a  mere  desert  of  sand  where  no 
green  thing  grows  or  can  grow!  How  much  there 
is  in  books  that  one  does  not  want  to  know,  that  it 
would  be  a  mere  weariness  and  burden  to  the  spirit 
to  know;  how  much  of  modern  physical  science  is 
a  mere  rattling  of  dead  bones,  a  mere  threshing  of 
empty  straw!  Probably  we  shall  come  round  to  as 
lively  a  conception  of  things  by  and  by.  Darwin 
has  brought  us  a  long  way  toward  it.  At  any  rate, 
the  ignorance  of  the  old  writers  is  often  more  capti 
vating  than  our  exact  but  more  barren  knowledge. 

The  old  books  are  full  of  this  dew-scented  know 
ledge, —  knowledge  gathered  at  first  hand  in  the 
morning  of  the  world.  In  our  more  exact  scientific 
knowledge  this  pristine  quality  is  generally  miss 
ing;  and  hence  it  is  that  the  results  of  science  are 
far  less  available  for  literature  than  the  results  of 
experience. 

Science  is  probably  unfavorable  to  the  growth  of 
literature  because  it  does  not  throw  man  back  upon 
himself  and  concentrate  him  as  the  old  belief  did ;  it 
takes  him  away  from  himself,  away  from  human  re 
lations  and  emotions,  and  leads  him  on  and  on.  We 
wonder  and  marvel  more,  but  we  fear,  dread,  love, 


52  INDOOR   STUDIES 

sympathize  less.  Unless,  indeed,  we  finally  come 
to  see,  as  we  probably  shall,  that  after  science  has 
done  its  best  the  mystery  is  as  great  as  ever,  and  the 
imagination  and  the  emotions  have  just  as  free  a 
field  as  before. 

Science  and  literature  in  their  aims  and  methods 
have  but  little  in  common.  Demonstrable  fact  is 
the  province  of  the  one;  sentiment  is  the  province 
of  the  other.  "The  more  a  book  brings  sentiment 
into  light,"  says  M.  Taine,  "the  more  it  is  a  work 
of  literature ; "  and,  we  may  add,  the  more  it  brings 
the  facts  and  laws  of  natural  things  to  light,  the 
more  it  is  a  work  of  science.  Or,  as  Emerson  says 
in  one  of  his  early  essays,  "literature  affords  a  plat 
form  whence  we  may  command  a  view  of  our  pres 
ent  life,  a  purchase  by  which  we  may  move  it. "  In 
like  manner  science  affords  a  platform  whence  we 
may  view  our  physical  existence,  —  a  purchase  by 
which  we  may  move  the  material  world.  The  value 
of  the  one  is  in  its  ideality,  that  of  the  other  in  its 
exact  demonstrations.  The  knowledge  which  liter 
ature  most  loves  and  treasures  is  knowledge  of  life; 
while  science  is  intent  upon  a  knowledge  of  things, 
not  as  they  are  in  their  relation  to  the  mind  and 
heart  of  man,  but  as  they  are  in  and  of  themselves, 
in  their  relations  to  each  other  and  to  the  human 
body.  Science  is  a  capital- or  fund  perpetually  re 
invested;  it  accumulates,  rolls  up,  is  carried  forward 
by  every  new  man.  Every  man  of  science  has  all 
the  science  before  him  to  go  upon,  to  set  himself 
up  in  business  with.  What  an  enormous  sum  Dar- 


SCIENCE   AND   LITERATURE  53 

win  availed  himself  of  and  reinvested !  Not  so  in 
literature;  to  every  poet,  to  every  artist,  it  is  still 
the  first  day  of  creation,  so  far  as  the  essentials  of 
his  task  are  concerned.  Literature  is  not  so  much  a 
fund  to  be  reinvested  as  it  is  a  crop  to  be  ever  new- 
grown.  Wherein  science  furthers  the  eye,  sharpens 
the  ear,  lengthens  the  arm,  quickens  the  foot,  or 
extends  man  farther  into  nature  in  the  natural  bent 
and  direction  of  his  faculties  and  powers,  a  service 
is  undoubtedly  rendered  to  literature.  But  so  far 
as  it  engenders  a  habit  of  peeping  and  prying  into 
nature,  and  blinds  us  to  the  festive  splendor  and 
meaning  of  the  whole,  our  verdict  must  be  against  it. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  literature  has  kept  pace 
with  civilization,  though  science  has ;  in  fact,  it  may 
be  said  without  exaggeration  that  science  is  civiliza 
tion —  the  application  of  the  powers  of  nature  to 
the  arts  of  life.  The  reason  why  literature  has  not 
kept  pace  is  because  so  much  more  than  mere  know 
ledge,  well-demonstrated  facts,  goes  to  the  making 
of  it,  while  little  else  goes  to  the  making  of  pure 
science.  Indeed,  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  in  litera 
ture  as  in  religion,  "cometh  not  with  observation." 
This  felicity  is  within  you  as  much  in  the  one  case 
as  in  the  other.  It  is  the  fruit  of  the  spirit,  and 
not  of  the  diligence  of  the  hands. 

Because  this  is  so,  because  modern  achievements 
in  letters  are  not  on  a  par  with  our  material  and 
scientific  triumphs,  there  are  those  who  predict  for 
literature  a  permanent  decay,  and  think  the  field  it 
now  occupies  is  to  be  entirely  usurped  by  science. 


54  INDOOR    STUDIES 

But  this  can  never  be.  Literature  will  have  its 
period  of  decadence  and  of  partial  eclipse ;  but  the 
chief  interest  of  mankind  in  nature  or  in  the  uni 
verse  can  never  be  for  any  length  of  time  a  merely 
scientific  interest,  —  an  interest  measured  by  our 
exact  knowledge  of  these  things;  though  it  must 
undoubtedly  be  an  interest  consistent  with  the  sci 
entific  view.  Think  of  having  one's  interest  in  a 
flower,  a  bird,  the  landscape,  the  starry  skies,  de 
pendent  upon  the  stimulus  afforded  by  the  text 
books,  or  dependent  upon  our  knowlege  of  the  struc 
ture,  habits,  functions,  relations  of  these  objects! 

This  other  and  larger  interest  in  natural  objects, 
to  which  I  refer,  is  an  interest  as  old  as  the  race 
itself,  and  which  all  men,  learned  and  unlearned 
alike,  feel  in  some  degree,  —  an  interest  born  of  our 
relations  to  these  things,  of  our  associations  with 
them.  It  is  the  human  sentiments  they  awaken 
and  foster  in  us,  the  emotion  of  love  or  admiration, 
or  awe  or  fear,  they  call  up;  and  is  in  fact  the  in 
terest  of  literature  as  distinguished  from  that  of 
science.  The  admiration  one  feels  for  a  flower,  for 
a  person,  for  a  fine  view,  £or  a  noble  deed,  the  pleas 
ure  one  takes  in  a  spring  morning,  in  a  stroll  upon 
the  beach,  is  the  admiration  and  the  pleasure  litera 
ture  feels  and  art  feels;  only  in  them  the  feeling  is 
freely  opened  and  expanded  which  in  most  minds  is 
usually  vague  and  germinal.  Science  has  its  own 
pleasure  in  these  things;  but  it  is  not,  as  a  rule,  a 
pleasure  in  which  the  mass  of  mankind  can  share, 
because  it  is  not  directly  related  to  the  human  affec- 


SCIENCE   AND   LITERATURE  55 

tions  and  emotions.  In  fact,  the  scientific  treatment 
of  nature  can  no  more  do  away  with  or  supersede 
the  literary  treatment  of  it  —  the  view  of  it  as  seen 
through  our  sympathies  and  emotions,  and  touched 
by  the  ideal,  such  as  the  poet  gives  us  —  than  the 
compound  of  the  laboratory  can  take  the  place  of 
the  organic  compounds  found  in  our  food,  drink, 
and  air. 

If  Audubon  had  not  felt  other  than  a  scientific 
interest  in  the  birds,  —  namely,  a  human  interest, 
an  interest  born  of  sentiment,  —  would  he  have  ever 
written  their  biographies  as  he  did  ? 

It  is  too  true  that  the  ornithologists  of  our  day  for 
the  most  part  look  upon  the  birds  only  as  so  much 
legitimate  game  for  expert  dissection  and  classifica 
tion,  and  hence  have  added  no  new  lineaments  to 
Audubon 's  and  Wilson's  portraits.  Such  a  man  as 
Darwin  was  full  of  what  we  may  call  the  sentiment 
of  science.  Darwin  was  always  pursuing  an  idea, 
always  tracking  a  living,  active  principle.  He  is 
full  of  the  ideal  interpretation  of  fact,  science  fired 
with  faith  and  enthusiasm,  the  fascination  of  the 
power  and  mystery  of  nature.  All  his  works  have 
a  human  and  almost  poetic  side.  They  are  un 
doubtedly  the  best  feeders  of  literature  we  have  yet 
had  from  the  field  of  science.  His  book  on  the  earth 
worm,  or  on  the  formation  of  vegetable  mould,  reads 
like  a  fable  in  which  some  high  and  beautiful  phi 
losophy  is  clothed.  How  alive  he  makes  the  plants 
and  the  trees!  —  shows  all  their  movements,  their 
sleeping  and  waking,  and  almost  their  yery  dreams 


56  INDOOR   STUDIES 

—  does,  indeed,  disclose  and  establish  a  kind  of  rudi 
mentary  soul  or  intelligence  in  the  tip  of  the  radicle 
of  plants.  No  poet  has  ever  made  the  trees  so  hu 
man.  Mark,  for  instance,  his  discovery  of  the  value 
of  cross-fertilization  in  the  vegetable  kingdom,  and 
the  means  Nature  takes  to  bring  it  about.  Cross- 
fertilization  is  just  as  important  in  the  intellec 
tual  kingdom  as  in  the  vegetable.  The  thoughts  of 
the  recluse  finally  become  pale  and  feeble.  With 
out  pollen  from  other  minds,  how  can  one  have  a 
race  of  vigorous  seedlings  of  his  own?  Thus  all 
Darwinian  books  have  to  me  a  literary  or  poetic 
substratum.  The  old  fable  of  metamorphosis  and 
transformation  he  illustrates  afresh  in  his  "Origin 
of  Species,"  in  the  "Descent  of  Man."  Darwin's 
interest  in  nature  is  strongly  scientific,  but  our  in 
terest  in  him  is  largely  literary;  he  is  tracking  a 
principle,  the  principle  of  organic  life,  following  it 
through  all  its  windings  and  turnings  and  doub 
lings  and  redoublings  upon  itself,  in  the  air,  in  the 
earth,  in  the  water,  in  the  vegetable,  and  in  all 
the  branches  of  the  animal  world;  the  footsteps  of 
creative  energy;  not  why,  but  how;  and  we  follow 
him  as  we  would  follow  a  great  explorer,  or  general, 
or  voyager  like  Columbus,  charmed  by  his  candor, 
dilated  by  his  mastery.  He  is  said  to  have  lost  his 
taste  for  poetry,  and  to  have  cared  little  for  what  is 
called  religion.  His  sympathies  were  so  large  and 
comprehensive;  the  mere  science  in  him  is  so  per 
petually  overarched  by  that  which  is  not  science,  but 
faith,  insight,  imagination,  prophecy,  inspiration,  — 


SCIENCE    AND   LITERATURE  57 

"substance  of  things  hoped  for,  the  evidence  of 
things  not  seen ; "  his  love  of  truth  so  deep  and 
abiding;  and  his  determination  to  see  things,  facts, 
'in  their  relations,  and  as  they  issue  in  principle,  so 
unsleeping,  —  that  both  his  poetic  and  religious  emo 
tions,  as  well  as  his  scientific  proclivities,  found 
full  scope,  and  his  demonstration  becomes  almost  a 
song.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  such  a  mind  as  Goethe's 
would  have  followed  him  and  supplemented  him, 
not  from  its  wealth  of  scientific  lore,  but  from  its 
poetic  insight  into  the  methods  of  nature. 

Again,  it  is  the  fine  humanism  of  such  a  man  as 
Humboldt  that  gives  his  name  and  his  teachings 
currency.  Men  who  have  not  this  humanism,  who 
do  not  in  any  way  relate  their  science  to  life  or  to 
the  needs  of  the  spirit,  but  pile  up  mere  technical, 
desiccated  knowledge,  are  for  the  most  part  a  waste 
or  a  weariness.  Humboldt' s  humanism  makes  him 
a  stimulus  and  a  support  to  all  students  of  nature. 
The  noble  character,  the  poetic  soul,  shines  out  in 
alH  his  works  and  gives  them  a  value  above  and  be 
yond  their  scientific  worth,  great  as  that  undoubtedly 
is.  To  his  desire  for  universal  knowledge  he  added 
the  love  of  beautiful  forms,  and  his  "Cosmos  "  is  an 
attempt  at  an  artistic  creation,  a  harmonious  repre 
sentation  of  the  universe  that  should  satisfy  the 
aesthetic  sense  as  well  as  the  understanding.  It  is  a 
graphic  description  of  nature,  not  a  mechanical  one. 
Men  of  pure  science  look  askant  at  it,  or  at  Hum- 
boldt,  on  this  account.  A  sage  of  13erliri  says  he 
failed  to  reach  the  utmost  height  of  science  because 


58  INDOOR   STUDIES 

of  his  want  of  " physico-mathematical  knowledge;" 
he  was  not  sufficiently  content  with  the  mere  dead 
corpse  of  nature  to  weigh  and  measure  it.  Lucky 
for  him  and  for  the  world  that  there  was  something 
that  had  a  stronger  attraction  for  him  than  the  al 
gebraic  formulas.  Humboldt  was  not  content  till 
he  had  escaped  from  the  trammels  of  mechanical 
science  into  the  larger  and  more  vital  air  of  litera 
ture,  or  the  literary  treatment  of  nature.  "What 
keeps  his  "Views  of  Nature"  and  his  *' Scientific 
Travels "  alive  is  not  so  much  the  pure  science 
which  they  hold  as  the  good  literature  which  they 
embody.  The  observations  he  records  upon  that 
wonderful  tropical  nature,  that  are  the  fruit  of  his 
own  unaided  perceptions,  betraying  only  the  wiser 
hunter,  trapper,  walker,  farmer,  etc.,  how  welcome 
it  all  is !  But  the  moment  he  goes  behind  the  beauti 
ful  or  natural  reason  and  discourses  as  a  geologist, 
mineralogist,  physical  geographer,  etc.,  how  one's 
interest  flags!  It  is  all  of  interest  and  value  to 
specialists  in  those  fields,  but  it  has  no  human  and 
therefore  no  literary  interest  or  value.  When  he 
tells  us  that  "monkeys  are  more  melancholy  in  pro 
portion  as  they  have  more  resemblance  to  man ; " 
that  "their  sprightliness  diminishes  as  their  intel 
lectual  faculties  appear  to  increase, "  —  we  read  with 
more  attention  than  when  he  discourses  as  a  learned 
naturalist  upon  the  different  species  of  monkeys. 
It  is  a  real  addition  to  our  knowledge  of  nature  to 
learn  that  the  extreme  heat  and  dryness  of  the  sum 
mer,  within  the  equatorial  zone  in  South  America, 


SCIENCE   AND   LITERATURE  59 

produces  effects  analogous  to  those  produced  by  the 
cold  of  our  northern  winters.  The  trees  lose  their 
leaves,  the  snakes  and  crocodiles  and  other  reptiles 
-bury  themselves  in  the  mud,  and  many  phases  of 
life,  both  animal  and  vegetable,  are  wrapped  in  a 
long  sleep.  This  is  not  strictly  scientific  knowledge ; 
it  is  knowledge  that  lies  upon  the  surface,  and  that 
any  eye  and  mind  may  gather.  One  feels  inclined 
to  skip  the  elaborate  account  of  the  physical  fea 
tures  of  the  lake  of  Valencia  and  its  surroundings, 
but  the  old  Mestizo  Indian  who  gave  the  travelers 
goat's  milk,  and  who,  with  his  beautiful  daughter, 
lived  on  a  little  island  in  its  midst,  awakens  lively 
curiosity.  He  guarded  his  daughter  as  a  miser 
guards  his  treasure.  When  some  hunters  by  chance 
passed  a  night  on  his  island,  he  suspected  some  de 
signs  upon  his  girl,  and  he  obliged  her  to  climb  up 
a  very  lofty  acacia-tree,  which  grew  in  the  plain  at 
some  distance  from  the  hut,  while  he  stretched  him 
self  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and  would  not  permit 
her  to  descend  till  the  young  men  had  departed. 
Thus,  throughout  the  work,  when  the  scientific  in 
terest  is  paramount,  the  literary  and  human  interest 
fail,  and  vice  versa. 

No  man  of  letters  was  ever  more  hospitable  to 
science  than  Goethe;  indeed,  some  of  the  leading 
ideas  of  modern  science  were  distinctly  foreshad 
owed  by  him;  yet  they  took  the  form  and  texture 
of  literaturo,  or  of  sentiment,  rather  than  of  exact 
science.  They  were  the  Teachings  forth  of  his  spirit ; 
his  grasping  for  the  ideal  clews  to  nature,  rather 


60  INDOOR   STUDIES 

than  logical  steps  of  his  understanding;  and  his 
whole  interest  in  physics  was  a  search  for  a  truth 
above  physics,  —  to  get  nearer,  if  possible,  to  this 
mystery  called  nature.  "The  understanding  will 
not  reach  her, "  he  said  to  Eckermann ;  "  man  must 
be  capable  of  elevating  himself  to  the  highest  reason 
to  come  in  contact  with  this  divinity,  which  mani 
fests  itself  in  the  primitive  phenomena,  which  dwells 
behind  them,  and  from  which  they  proceed."  Of 
like  purport  is  his  remark  that  the  common  obser 
vations  which  science  makes  upon  nature  and  its 
procedure,  "in  whatever  terms  expressed,  are  really 
after  all  only  symptoms  which,  if  any  real  wisdom 
is  to  result  from  our  studies,  must  be  traced  back  to 
the  physiological  and  pathological  principles  of  which 
they  are  the  exponents." 

Literature,  I  say,  does  not  keep  pace  with  civ 
ilization.  That  the  world  is  better  housed,  bet 
ter  clothed,  better  fed,  better  transported,  better 
equipped  for  war,  better  armed  for  peace,  more 
skilled  in  agriculture,  in  navigation,  in  engineering, 
in  surgery,  has  steam,  electricity,  gunpowder,  dyna 
mite,  —  all  of  this,  it  seems,  is  of  little  moment  to 
literature.  Are  men  better?  Are  men  greater? 
Is  life  sweeter?  These  are  the  test  questions. 
Time  has  been  saved,  almost  annihilated,  by  steam 
and  electricity,  yet  where  is  the  leisure  ?  The  more 
time  we  save  the  less  we  have.  The  hurry  of  the 
machine  passes  into  the  man.  We  can  outrun  the 
wind  and  the  storm,  but  we  cannot  outrun  the  de 
mon  of  Hurry.  The  farther  we  go  the  harder  he 


SCIENCE    AND   LITERATURE  61 

spurs  us.  What  we  save  in  time  we  make  up  in 
space;  we  must  cover  more  surface.  What  we  gain 
in  power  and  facility  is  more  than  added  in  the 
length  of  the  task.  The  needlewoman  has  her 
sewing-machine,  but  she  must  take  ten  thousand 
stitches  now  where  she  took  only  ten  before,  and  it 
is  probably  true  that  the  second  condition  is  worse 
than  the  first.  In  the  shoe  factory,  knife  factory, 
shirt  factory,  and  all  other  factories,  men  and  wo 
men  work  harder,  look  grimmer,  suffer  more  in  mind 
and  body,  than  under  the  old  conditions  of  indus 
try.  The  iron  of  the  machine  enters  the  soul; 
man  becomes  a  -mere  tool,  a  cog  or  spoke  or  belt  or 
spindle.  More  work  is  done,  but  in  what  does  it 
all  issue?  Certainly  not  in  beauty,  in  power,  in 
character,  in  good  manners,  in  finer  men  and  wo 
men;  but  mostly  in  giving  wealth  and  leisure  to 
people  who  use  them  to  publish  their  own  unfitness 
for  leisure  and  wealth. 

It  may  be  said  that  science  has  added  to  the 
health  and  longevity  of  the  race;  that  the  progress 
in  surgery,  in  physiology,  in  pathology,  in  thera 
peutics,  has  greatly  mitigated  human  suffering  and 
prolonged  life.  This  is  unquestionably  true;  but 
in  this  service  science  is  but  paying  back  with  one 
hand  what  it  robbed  us  of  with  the  other.  With 
its  appliances,  its  machinery,  its  luxuries,  its  im 
munities,  and  its  interference  with  the  law  of  natu 
ral  selection,  it  has  made  the  race  more  delicate  and 
tender,  and,  if  it  did  not  arm  them  better  against 
disease  also,  we  should  all  soon  perish.  An  old 


62  INDOOR   STUDIES 

physician  said  that  if  he  bled  and  physicked  now,  as 
in  his  early  practice,  his  patients  would  all  die. 
Are  we  stronger,  more 'hardy,  more  virile  than  our 
ancestors?  We  are  more  comfortable  and  better 
schooled  than  our  fathers,  but  who  shall  say  we  are 
wiser  or  happier?  "Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom 
lingers,"  just  as  it  always  has  and  always  will. 
The  essential  conditions  of  human  life  are  always  the 
same;  the  non-essential  change  with  every  man  and 
hour. 

Literature  is  more  interested  in  some  branches  of 
science  than  in  others;  more  interested  in  meteor 
ology  than  in  mineralogy;  more  interested  in  the 
superior  sciences,  like  astronomy  and  geology,  than 
in  the  inferior  experimental  sciences;  has  a  warmer 
interest  in  Humboldt  the  traveler  than  in  Hum- 
boldt  the  mineralogist;  in  Audubon  and  Wilson 
than  in  the  experts  and  feather-splitters  who  have 
finished  their  task ;  in  Watts,  Morse,  Franklin,  than 
in  the  masters  of  theories  and  formulas;  and  has  a 
greater  stake  in  virtue,  heroism,  character,  beauty, 
than  in  all  the  knowledge  in  the  world.  There  is 
no  literature  without  a  certain  subtle  and  vital  blend 
ing  of  the  real  and  the  ideal. 

Unless  knowledge  in  some  way  issues  in  life,  in 
character,  in  impulse,  in  motive,  in  love,  in  virtue, 
in  some  live  human  quality  or  attribute,  it  does  not 
belong  to  literature.  Man,  and  man  alone,  is  of 
perennial  interest  to  man.  In  nature  we  glean  only 
the  human  traits,  —  only  those  things  that  in  some 
way  appeal  to,  or  are  interpretative  of,  the  meaning 


SCIENCE   AND   LITERATURE  63 

or  ideal  within  us.  Unless  the  account  of  your 
excursion  to  field  and  forest,  or  to  the  bowels  of  the 
earth,  or  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  has  some  human 
interest,  and  in  some  measure  falls  in  with  the  fes 
tival  of  life,  literature  will  none  of  it. 

All  persons  are  interested  in  the  live  bird  and  in 
the  live  animal,  because  they  dimly  read  themselves 
there,  or  see  their  own  lives  rendered  in  new  charac 
ters  on  another  plane.  Flowers,  trees,  rivers,  lakes, 
mountains,  rocks,  clouds,  the  rain,  the  sea,  are  far 
more  interesting  to  literature,  because  they  are  more 
or  less  directly  related  to  our  natural  lives,  and 
serve  as  vehicles  for  the  expression  of  our  natural 
emotions.  That  which  is  more  directly  related  to 
what  may  be  called  our  artificial  life,  our  need  for 
shelter,  clothing,  food,  transportation  —  such  as  the 
factory,  the  mill,  the  forge,  the  railway,  and  the 
whole  catalogue  of  useful  arts,  —  is  of  less  interest, 
and  literature  is  shyer  of  it.  And  it  may  be  ob 
served  that  the  more  completely  the  thing  is  taken 
out  of  nature  and  artificialized,  the  less  interest 
we  take  in  it.  Thus  the  sailing  vessel  is  more 
pleasing  to  contemplate  than  the  steamer;  the  old 
grist-mill,  with  its  dripping  water-wheel,  than  the 
steam-mill;  the  open  fire  than  the  stove  or  regis 
ter.  Tools  and  implements  are  not  so  interesting  as 
weapons;  nor  the  trades  as  the  pursuit  of  hunting, 
fishing,  surveying,  exploring.  A  jackknife  is  not  so 
interesting  as  an  arrow-head,  a  rifle  as  a  war-club, 
a  watch  as  an  hour-glass,  a  threshing-machine  as  the 
flying  flail.  Commerce  is  less  interesting  to  litera- 


64  INDOOR   STUDIES 

ture  than  war,  because  it  is  more  artificial;  nature 
does  not  have  such  full  swing  in  it.  The  black 
smith  interests  us  more  than  the  gunsmith;  we  see 
more  of  nature  at  his  forge.  The  farmer  is  dearer 
to  literature  than  the  merchant;  the  gardener  than 
the  agricultural  chemist;  the  drover,  the  herder,  the 
fisherman,  the  lumberman,  the  miner,  are  more  in 
teresting  to  her  than  the  man  of  more  elegant  and 
artificial  pursuits. 

The  reason  of  all  this  is  clear  to  see.  We  are  em 
bosomed  in  nature ;  we  are  an  apple  on  the  bough,  a 
babe  at  the  breast.  In  nature,  in  God,  we  live  and 
move  and  have  our  being.  Our  life  depends  upon 
the  purity,  the  closeness,  the  vitality  of  the  con 
nection.  We  want  and  must  have  nature  at  first 
hand;  water  from  the  spring,  milk  from  the  udder, 
bread  from  the  wheat,  air  from  the  open.  Vitiate 
our  supplies,  weaken  our  connection,  and  we  fail. 
All  our  instincts,  appetites,  functions,  must  be  kept 
whole  and  normal;  in  fact,  our  reliance  is  wholly 
upon  nature,  and  this  bears  fruit  in  the  mind.  In 
art,  in  literature,  in  life,  we  are  drawn  by  that 
which  seems  nearest  to,  and  most  in  accord  with, 
her.  Natural  or  untaught  knowledge,  —  how  much 
closer  it  touches  us  than  professional  knowledge! 
Keep  me  close  to  nature,  is  the  constant  demand  of 
literature;  open  the  windows  and  let  in  the  air,  the 
sun,  let  in  health  and  strength;  my  blood  must 
have  oxygen,  my  lungs  must  be  momentarily  filled 
with  the  fresh  unhoused  element.  I  cannot  breathe 
the  cosmic  ether  of  the  abtruse  inquirer,  nor  thrive 


SCIENCE    AND   LITERATURE  65 

on  the  gases  of  the  scientist  in  his  laboratory;  the 
air  of  hill  and  field  alone  suffices. 

The  life  of  the  hut  is  of  more  interest  to  litera 
ture  than  the  life  of  the  palace,  except  so  far  as  the 
same  Nature  has  her  way  in  both.  Get  rid  of  the 
artificial,  the  complex,  and  let  in  the  primitive  and 
the  simple.  Art  and  poetry  never  tire  of  the  plow, 
the  scythe,  the  axe,  the  hoe,  the  flail,  the  oar;  but 
the  pride  and  glory  of  the  agricultural  warehouse, — 
can  that  be  sung?  The  machine  that  talks  and 
walks  and  suffers  and  loves  is  still  the  best.  Arti 
fice,  the  more  artifice  there  is  thrust  between  us  and 
Nature,  the  more  appliances,  conductors,  fenders,  the 
less  freely  her  virtue  passes.  The  direct  rays  of 
the  open  fire  are  better  even  for  roasting  a  potato 
than  conducted  heat. 

What  we  owe  to  science,  as  tending  to  foster  a 
disinterested  love  of  truth,  as  tending  to  clarify  the 
mental  vision,  or  sharpen  curiosity,  or  cultivating 
the  spirit  of  fearless  inquiry,  or  stimulating  the 
desire  to  see  and  know  things  as  they  really  are, 
would  not  be  easy  to  determine.  A  great  deal,  no 
doubt.  But  the  value  of  the  modern  spirit,  the 
modern  emancipation,  as  a  factor  in  the  production 
of  a  great  literature,  remains  to  be  seen. 

Science  will  no  doubt  draw  off,  and  has  already 
drawn  off,  a  vast  deal  of  force  and  thought  that  has 
heretofore  found  an  outlet  in  other  pursuits,  perhaps 
in  law,  criticism,  or  historical  inquiries;  but  is  it 
probable  that  it  will  nip  in  the  bud  any  great  poets, 
painters,  romancers,  musicians,  orators?  Certain 


66  INDOOR   STUDIES 

branches  of  scientific  inquiry  drew  Goethe  strongly, 
but  his  aptitude  in  them  was  clearly  less  than  in  his 
own  chosen  field.  Alexander  Wilson  left  poetry 
for  ornithology,  and  he  made  a  wise  choice.  He 
became  eminent  in  the  one,  and  he  was  only  medi 
ocre  in  the  other.  Sir  Charles  Lyell  also  certainly 
chose  wisely  in  abandoning  verse-making  for  geol 
ogy.  In  the  latter  field  he  ranks  first,  and  in  in 
terpreting  "Nature's  infinite  book  of  secrecy,"  as  it 
lies  folded  in  the  geological  strata,  he  found  ample 
room  for  the  exercise  of  all  the  imagination  and 
power  of  interpretation  he  possessed.  His  conclu 
sions  have  sky-room  and  perspective,  and  give  us  a 
sort  of  poetic  satisfaction. 

The  true  poet  and  the  true  scientist  are  not  es 
tranged.  They  go  forth  into  nature  like  two  friends. 
Behold  them  strolling  through  the  summer  fields 
and  woods.  The  younger  of  the  two  is  much  the 
more  active  and  inquiring;  he  is  ever  and  anon 
stepping  aside  to  examine  some  object  more  mi 
nutely,  plucking  a  flower,  treasuring  a  shell,  pur 
suing  a  bird,  watching  a  butterfly;  now  he  turns 
over  a  stone,  peers  into  the  marshes,  chips  off  a 
fragment  of  a  rock,  and  everywhere  seems  intent  on 
some  special  and  particular  knowledge  of  the  things 
about  him.  The  elder  man  has  more  an  air  of  leis 
urely  contemplation  and  enjoyment,  —  is  less  curious 
about  special  objects  and  features,  and  more  desirous 
of  putting  himself  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of 
the  whole.  But  when  his  younger  companion  has 
any  fresh  and  characteristic  bit  of  information  to 


SCIENCE   AND   LITERATURE  67 

impart  to  him,  how  attentively  he  listens,  how  sure 
and  discriminating  is  his  appreciation!  The  inter- 
'ests  of  the  two  in  the  universe  are  widely  different, 
yet  in  no  true  sense  are  they  hostile  or  mutually 
destructive. 


Ill 

SCIENCE   AND   THE   POETS 

TT  is  interesting  to  note  to  what  extent  the  lead- 
-*-  ing  literary  men  of  our  time  have  been  influ 
enced  by  science,  or  have  availed  themselves  of 
its  results.  A  great  many  of  them  not  at  all,  it 
would  seem.  Among  our  own  writers,  Bryant, 
Irving,  Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  show  little 
or  no  trace  of  the  influence  of  science.  The  later 
English  poets,  Arnold,  Swinburne,  Rossetti,  do  not 
appear  to  have  profited  by  science.  There  is  no 
science  in  Rossetti,  unless  it  be  a  kind  of  dark, 
forbidden  science,  or  science  in  league  with  sor 
cery.  Rossetti 's  muse  seems  to  have  been  drugged 
with  an  opiate  that  worked  inversely  and  made  it 
morbidly  wakeful  instead  of  somnolent.  The  air 
of  his  "  House  of  Life "  is  close,  and  smells  not 
merely  of  midnight  oil,  but  of  things  much  more 
noxious  and  suspicious. 

Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  Landor  seem  to  have 
owed  little  or  nothing  directly  to  science;  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth  probably  more,  though  with  them 
the  debt  was  inconsiderable.  Wordsworth's  great 
ode  shows  no  trace  of  scientific  knowledge.  Yet 
Wordsworth  was  certainly  an  interested  observer  of 


70  INDOOR    STUDIES 

the  scientific  progress  of  his  age,  and  was  the  first 
to  indicate  the  conditions  under  which  the  poet 
could  avail  himself  of  the  results  of  physical  science. 
"The  Poet,"  he  says,  "writes  under  one  restriction 
only,  namely,  that  of  the  necessity  of  giving  im 
mediate  pleasure  to  a  human  Being  possessed  of  that 
information  which  may  be  expected  from  him,  not 
as  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a  mariner,  an  astronomer, 
or  a  natural  philosopher,  but  as  a  Man."  "The 
knowledge  both  of  the  Poet  and  the  Man  of  Sci 
ence,"  he  again  says,  "is  pleasure:  but  the  know 
ledge  of  the  one  cleaves  to  us  as  a  necessary  part 
of  our  existence,  our  natural  and  unalienable  in 
heritance;  the  other,  as  a  personal  and  individual 
acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by  no  habitual 
and  direct  sympathy  connecting  us  with  our  fellow- 
beings.  "  In  reaching  his  conclusion,  he  finally  says : 
"The  remotest  discoveries  of  the  Chemist,  the  Bot 
anist,  or  Mineralogist  will  be  as  proper  objects  of 
the  Poet's  art  as  any  upon  which  it  can  be  em 
ployed,  if  the  time  should  ever  come  when  these 
things  shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  the  relations 
under  which  they  are  contemplated  by  the  followers 
of  these  respective  sciences  shall  be  manifestly  and 
palpably  material  to  us  as  enjoying  and  suffering 
beings.  If  the  time  should  ever  come  when  what 
is  now  called  Science,  thus  familiarized  to  men,  shall 
be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  were,  a  form  of  flesh  and 
blood,  the  Poet  will  lend  this  divine  spirit  to  aid 
the.  transfiguration,  and  will  welcome  the  Being 
thus  produced  as  a  dear  and  genuine  inmate  of  the 


SCIENCE   AND   THE   POETS  71 

household  of  man."  To  clothe  science  with  flesh 
and  blood,  to  breathe  into  it  the  breath  of  life,  is  a 
creative  work  which  only  the  Poet  can  do.  Several 
of  the  younger  poets,  both  in  this  country  and  in 
England,  have  made  essays  in  this  direction,  but 
with  indifferent  success.  It  is  still  science  when 
they  have  done  with  it,  and  not  poetry.  The  trans 
figuration  of  which  Wordsworth  speaks  is  not  per 
fect.  The  inorganic  has  not  clearly  become  the 
organic.  Charles  DeKay  has  some  good  touches, 
but  still  the  rock  is  too  near  the  surface.  The 
poetic  covering  of  vegetable  mould  is  too  scanty. 
More  successful,  but  still  rather  too  literal,  are  sev 
eral  passages  in  Mr.  Nichols's  "Monte  Kosa."  A 
passage  beginning  on  page  9, 

"  Of  what  was  doing  on  earth 
Ere  man  had  come  to  see," 

is  good  science  and  pretty  good  poetry. 

"  And  that  unlettered  time  slipped  on, 
Saw  tropic  climes  invade  the  polar  rings, 
The  polar  cold  lay  waste  the  tropic  marge ; 
Saw  monster  beasts  emerge  in  ooze  and  air, 
And  run  their  race  and  stow  their  bones  in  clay; 
Saw  the  bright  gold  bedew  the  elder  rocks, 
And  all  the  gems  grow  cn'stal  in  their  caves; 
Saw  plant  wax  quick,  and  stir  to  moving  worm, 
And  worm  move  upward,  reaching  toward  the  brute  J 
Saw  brute  by  habit  fit  himself  with  brain, 
And  startle  earth  with  wondrous  progeny; 
Saw  all  of  these,  and  still  saw  no  true  man, 
For  man  was  not,  or  still  so  rarely  was, 
That  as  a  little  child  his  thoughts  were  weak, 
Weak  and  forgetful  and  of  nothing  worth, 
And  Nature  stormed  along  her  changeful  ways 
Unheeded,  undescribed,  the  while  man  slept 
Infolded  in  his  germ,  or  with  fierce  brutes, 


72  INDOOR   STUDIES 

Himself  but  brutal,  waged  a  pigmy  war, 
Unclad  as  they,  and  with  them  housed  in  caves, 
Nor  knew  that  sea  retired  or  mountain  rose." 

Whether  the  science  in  this  and  similar  passages, 
with  which  Mr.  Nichols's  epic  abounds,  has  met 
with  a  change  of  heart  and  become  pure  poetry,  may 
be  questioned.  There  is  a  more  complete  absorp 
tion  of  science  and  the  emotional  reproduction  of  it 
in  Whitman,  as  there  is  also  in  Tennyson.  "In 
Memoriam  "  is  full  of  science  winged  with  passion. 

Tennyson  owes  a  larger  debt  to  physical  science 
than  any  other  current  English  poet;  Browning,  the 
largest  debt  to  legerdemain,  or  the  science  of  jug 
glery.  Occasionally  Tennyson  puts  wings  to  a  fact 
of  science  very  successfully,  as  in  his  "The  Two 
Voices :  "  — 

"  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

"An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk:  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

"  He  dried  his  wings:  like  gauze  they  grew: 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

Keats 's  touches  are  often  accurate  enough  for  sci 
ence,  and  free  and  pictorial  enough  for  poetry. 

"  Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  night ; 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings." 

Or  this  by  a  "streamlet's  rushy  banks:  "  — 

"  Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 
Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 


SCIENCE   AND   THE   POETS  73 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 
Temper'd  with  coolness,  how  they  ever  wrestle 
With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 
Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand  ! " 

Only  a  naturalist  can  fully  appreciate  Keats 's  owl, 
—  *  *  the  downy  owl, "  as  the  quills  and  feathers  of 
this  bird  are  literally  tipped  with  down,  making  it 
soft  to  the  hand  and  silent  in  its  flight. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  takes  a  poet  to  appreciate 
fully  Linnaeus' s  marriage  of  the  plants,  and  his 
naming  of  the  calyx  the  thalamus,  or  bridal  cham 
ber;  and  the  corolla,  the  tapestry  of  it. 

The  two  eminent  poets  of  our  own  language  whose 
attitude  toward  science  is  the  most  welcome  and 
receptive  are  undoubtedly  Emerson  and  Whitman. 
Of  the  latter  in  this  connection  I  have  spoken  else 
where.  Of  Emerson  I  think  it  may  be  said  that  no 
other  imaginative  writer  has  been  so  stimulated  and 
aroused  by  the  astounding  discoveries  of  physics. 
There  was  something  in  the  boldness  of  science,  in 
its  surprises,  its  paradoxes,  its  affinities,  its  attrac 
tions  and  repulsions,  its  circles,  its  compensations, 
its  positive  and  negative,  its  each  in  all,  its  all  in 
each,  its  subtle  ethics,  its  perpetuity  and  conserva 
tion  of  forces,  its  spores  and  invisible  germs  in  the 
air,  its  electricity,  its  mysteries,  its  metamorphoses, 
its  perceptions  of  the  unity,  the  oneness  of  nature, 
etc. ,  —  there  was  something  in  all  these  things  that 
was  peculiarly  impressive  to  Emerson.  They  were 
in  the  direction  of  his  own  thinking;  they  were 
like  his  own  startling  affirmations.  He  was  con 
stantly  seeking  and  searching  out  the  same  things 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


74  INDOOR   STUDIES 

in  the  realm  of  ideas  and  of  morals.  In  his  labora 
tory  you  shall  witness  wonderful  combinations,  sur 
prising  affinities,  unexpected  relations  of  opposites, 
threads  and  ties  unthought  of. 

Emerson  went  through  the  cabinet  of  the  scien 
tist  as  one  goes  through  a  book-stall  to  find  an  odd 
volume  to  complete  a  set;  or  through  a  collection 
of  pictures,  looking  for  a  companion  piece.  He 
took  what  suited  him,  what  he  had  use  for  at  home. 
He  was  a  provident  bee  exploring  all  fields  for 
honey,  and  he  could  distill  the  nectar  from  the 
most  unlikely  sources.  Science  for  its  own  sake 
he  perhaps  cared  little  for,  and  on  one  occasion 
refers  rather  disdainfully  to  "this  post-mortem 
science."  Astrology,  he  says,  interests  us  more, 
"for  it  tied  man  to  the  system.  Instead  of  an  iso 
lated  beggar,  the  farthest  star  felt  him,  and  he  felt 
the  star.'7  "The  human  heart  concerns  us  more 
than  the  poring  into  microscopes,  and  is  larger  than 
can  be  measured  by  the  pompous  figures  of  the 
astronomer."  But  where  he  could  turn  science 
over  and  read  a  moral  on  the  other  side,  then  he 
valued  it,  —  then  the  bud  became  a  leaf  or  a  flower 
instead  of  a  thorn. 

While  in  London  in  1848  he  heard  Faraday  lec 
ture  in  the  Royal  Institute  on  dia,  or  cross  mag 
netism,  and  Emerson  instantly  caught  at  the  idea  as 
applicable  in  metaphysics.  "Diamagnetism,"  he 
says,  "  is  a  -law  of  the  m  ind  to  the  full  extent  of 
Faraday's  idea;  namely,  that  every  mind  has  a  new 
compass,  a  new  north,  a  new  direction  of  its  own, 


SCIENCE   AND   THE   POETS  75 

differencing  genius  and  aim  from  every  other  mind. " 
In  chemistry,  in  botany,  in  physiology,  in  geology, 
in  mechanics,  he  found  keys  to  unlock  his  enigmas. 
No  matter  from  what  source  the  hint  came,  he  was 
quick  to  take  it.  The  stress  and  urge  of  expres 
sion  with  him  was  very  great,  and  he  would  fuse 
and  recast  the  most  stubborn  material.  There  is 
hardly  a  fundamental  principle  of  science  that  he 
has  not  turned  to  ideal  uses.  "The  law  of  nature 
is  alternation  for  evermore.  Each  electrical  state 
superinduces  the  opposite."  "The  systole  and  dia 
stole  of  the  heart  are  not  without  their  analogy  in 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  love, "  and  so  on.  In  "  Spir 
itual  Laws  "  he  gives  a  happy  turn  to  the  law  of 
gravitation :  — 

"Let  us  draw  a  lesson  from  nature,  which  always 
works  by  short  ways.  When  the  fruit  is  ripe  it 
falls.  When  the  fruit  is  dispatched,  the  leaf  falls. 
The  circuit  of  the  waters  is  mere  falling.  The  walk 
ing  of  man  and  all  animals  is  a  falling  forward.  All 
our  manual  labor  and  works  of  strength,  as  prying, 
splitting,  digging,  rowing,  and  so  forth,  are  done 
by  dint  of  continual  falling,  and  the  globe,  earth, 
moon,  comet,  sun,  star,  fall  for  ever  and  ever." 

He  is  an  evolutionist,  not  upon  actual  proof  like 
Darwin,  but  upon  poetic  insight.  "Man,"  he  says, 
"carries  the  world  in  his  head,  the  whole  astron 
omy  and  chemistry  suspended  in  a  thought.  Be 
cause  the  history  of  Nature  is  charactered  in  his 
brain,  therefore  is  he  the  prophet  and  discoverer  of 
her  secrets.  Every  known  fact  in  natural  science 


76  INDOOR   STUDIES 

was  divined  by  the  presentiment  of  somebody  be 
fore  it  was  actually  verified. "  Thus  that  Stupendous 
result  of  modern  experimental  science,  that  heat  is 
only  a  mode  of  motion,  was  long  before  (in  1844)  a 
fact  in  Emerson's  idealism.  "A  little  heat,  that 
is  a  little  motion,  is  all  that  differences  the  bald, 
dazzling  white  and  deadly  cold  poles  of  the  earth 
from  the  prolific  tropical  climates.  All  changes 
pass  without  violence,  by  reason  of  the  two  cardinal 
conditions  of  boundless  space  and  boundless  time. 
Geology  has  initiated  us  into  the  secularity  of  na 
ture,  and  taught  us  to  disuse  our  dame-school  meas 
ure  and  exchange  our  Mosaic  and  Ptolemaic  schemes 
for  her  large  style.  We  knew  nothing  rightly,  for 
want  of  perspective.  Now  we  learn  what  patient 
periods  must  round  themselves  before  the  rock  is 
formed;  then  before  the  rock  is  broken,  and  the 
first  lichen  race  has  disintegrated  the  thinnest  exter 
nal  plate  into  soil,  and  opened  the  door  for  the  re 
mote  Flora,  Fauna,  Ceres,  and  Pomona  to  come  in. 
How  far  off  yet  is  the  trilobite !  how  far  the  quad 
ruped  !  how  inconceivably  remote  is  man !  All  duly 
arrive,  and  then  race  after  race  of  men.  It  is  a 
long  way  from  granite  to  the  oyster;  farther  yet  to 
Plato  and  the  preaching  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  Yet  all  must  come  as  surely  as  the  first  atom 
has  two  sides." 

Indeed,  most  of  Emerson's  writings,  including  his 
poems,  seem  curiously  to  imply  science,  as  if  ho  had 
all  these  bold  deductions  and  discoveries  under  his 
feet,  and  was  determined  to  match  them  in  the 


SCIENCE   AND  THE   POETS  77 

ideal.  He  has  taken  courage  from  her  revelations. 
He  would  show  another  side  to  nature  equally  won 
derful.  Such  men  as  Tyndall  confess  their  obliga 
tion  to  him.  His  optics,  his  electricity,  his  spec 
trum  analysis,  his  chemical  affinity,  his  perpetual 
forces,  his  dynamics,  his  litmus  tests,  his  germs  in 
the  air,  etc.,  are  more  wonderful  than  theirs.  How 
much  he  makes  of  circles,  of  polarity,  of  attraction 
and  repulsion,  of  natural  selection,  of 

"  The  famous  might  that  lurks 
In  reaction  and  recoil, 
Makes  flame  to  freeze,  and  ice  to  boil." 

He  is  the  astronomer  and  philosopher  of  the 
moral  sentiment.  He  is  full  of  the  surprises  and 
paradoxes,  the  subtle  relations  and  affinities,  the 
great  in  the  little,  the  far  in  the  near,  the  sublime 
in  the  mean,  that  science  has  disclosed  in  the  world 
about  us.  He  would  find  a  more  powerful  fulmi 
nant  than  has  yet  been  discovered.  He  likes  to  see 
two  harmless  elements  come  together  with  a  concus 
sion  that  will  shake  the  roof.  It  is  not  so  much  for 
material  that  Emerson  is  indebted  to  science  as  for 
courage,  example,  inspiration. 

When  he  used  scientific  material  he  fertilized  it 
with  his  own  spirit.  This  the  true  poet  will  always 
do  when  he  goes  to  this  field.  Hard  pan  will  not 
grow  corn ;  meteoric  dust  will  not  nourish  melons. 
The  poets  adds  something  to  the  hard  facts  of  science 
that  is  like  vegetable  mould  to  the  soil,  like  the  con 
tributions  of  animal  and  vegetable  life,  and  of  tho 
rains,  the  dews,  the  snows. 


78  INDOOR   STUDIES 

Carlyle's  debt  to  science  is  much  less  obvious  than 
that  of  Emerson.  He  was  not  the  intellectual  miser, 
the  gleaner  and  hoarder  of  ideas  for  their  own  sake, 
that  Emerson  was,  but  the  prophet  and  spokesman 
of  personal  qualities,  the  creator  and  celebrator  of 
heroes.  So  far  as  science  ignored  or  belittled  man 
or  the  ethical  quality  in  man,  and  rested  with  a  mere 
mechanical  conception  of  the  universe,  he  was  its 
enemy.  Individuality  alone  interested  him.  Not 
the  descent  of  the  species,  but  the  ascent  of  personal 
attributes,  was  the  problem  that  attracted  him.  He 
was  unfriendly  to  the  doctrine  of  physical  evolution, 
yet  his  conception  of  natural  selection  and  the  sur 
vival  of  the  fittest  as  applied  to  history  is  as  radical 
as  Darwin's.  He  had  studied  astronomy  to  some 
purpose.  The  fragment  left  among  his  papers  called 
"  Spiritual  Optics, "  and  published  by  Froude  in  his 
life  of  him,  shows  what  a  profound  interpretation 
and  application  he  had  given  to  the  cardinal  astro 
nomical  facts.  His  sense  of  the  reign  of  law,  his 
commanding  perception  of  the  justice  and  rectitude 
inherent  in  things,  of  the  reality  of  the  ideal,  of 
the  subordination  of  the  lesser  to  the  greater,  the 
tyranny  of  mass,  power,  etc. ,  have  evidently  all  been 
deepened  and  intensified  by  his  absorption  of  the 
main  principles  of  this  department  of  physical 
science.  What  disturbed  him  especially  was  any 
appearance  of  chaos,  anarchy,  insubordination;  he 
wanted  to  see  men  governed  and  duly  obedient  to 
the  stronger  force,  as  if  the  orbs  of  heaven  were  his 
standard.  He  seemed  always  to  see  man  and  human 


SCIENCE   AND   THE   POETS  79 

life  in  their  sidereal  relations,  against  a  background 
of  immensity,  depth  beyond  depth,  terror  beyond 
terror,  splendor  above  splendor,  surrounding  them. 
Indeed,  without  the  light  thrown  upon  the  universe 
by  the  revelations  of  astronomy,  Carlyle  would  prob 
ably  never  have  broken  from  the  Calvinistic  creed 
of  his  fathers.  By  a  kind  of  sure  instinct  he 
spurned  all  that  phase  of  science  which  results  in 
such  an  interpretation  of  the  universe  as  is  embodied 
in  the  works  of  Spencer,  —  works  which,  whatever 
their  value,  are  so  utterly  barren  to  the  literary  and 
artistic  mind. 

The  inquisitions  of  science,  the  vivisections,  the 
violent,  tortuous,  disrupting  processes,  are  not  al 
ways  profitable.  Wherein  nature  answers  the  most 
easily,  cheerfully,  directly,  we  find  our  deepest  in 
terest;  where  science  just  anticipates  the  natural 
sense,  as  it  were,  or  shows  itself  a  little  quicker- 
witted  than  our  slow  faculties,  as  in  the  discovery  of 
the  circulation  of  the  blood  for  instance.  The  real 
wonder  is  that  mankind  should  not  always  have 
known  and  believed  in  the  circulation  of  the  blood, 
because  circulation  is  the  law  of  nature.  Everything 
circulates,  or  finally  comes  back  to  its  starting-point. 
Stagnation  is  death.  The  sphericity  of  the  earth, 
too,  —  how  could  we  ever  believe  anything  else  ? 
Does  not  the  whole  system  of  things  centre  into 
balls,  —  every  form  in  nature  strive  to  be  spherical  ? 
The  sphere  is  the  infinity  of  form,  that  in  which  all 
specific  form  is  merged  and  lost,  or  into  which  it 
escapes  or  gets  transformed.  The  doctrine  of  the 


80  INDOOR   STUDIES 

correlation  and  conservation  of  forces  is  pointed  to 
by  the  laws  of  the  mind.  The  poets  have  always 
said  it,  and  all  men  have  felt  it;  why  await  scien 
tific  proof?  The  spectroscope  has  revealed  the  uni 
versality  of  chemistry,  that  the  farthermost  star,  as 
compared  with  our  earth,  is  bone  of  her  bone  and 
flesh  of  her  flesh.  This  is  a  poetic  truth  as  well  as 
a  scientific,  and  is  valuable  to  all  men,  because  the 
germ  of  it  always  lay  in  their  minds.  It  is  a  com 
fort  to  know  for  a  certainty  that  these  elements  are 
cosmic;  that  matter  is  the  same,  and  spirit,  or  law, 
the  same  everywhere;  and  that,  if  we  were  to  visit 
the  remotest  worlds,  we  should  not  find  the  men 
rooted  to  the  ground  and  the  trees  walking  about, 
but  life  on  the  same  terms  as  here.  The  main  facts 
of  natural  history  also  lie  in  the  main  direction  of 
our  natural  faculties,  and  are  proper  and  welcome  to 
all  men.  So  much  of  botany,  so  much  of  biology, 
so  much  of  geology,  of  chemistry,  of  natural  phi 
losophy,  as  lies  within  the  sphere  of  legitimate  ob 
servation,  or  within  the  plane  of  man's  natural 
knowledge,  is  capable  of  being  absorbed  by  litera 
ture*  and  heightened  to  new  significance. 


IV 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM 


"TTT^HEN  Matthew  Arnold,  during  his  visit  to 
*  *  this  country  in  1883-84,  delivered  himself 
upon  Emerson  and  Carlyle,  he  criticised  two  men 
who  belong  to  quite  a  different  order  of  mind  from  his 
own,  —  men  who  are  the  prophets  of  the  intuitions 
and  the  moral  sense,  as  he  himself  is  the  apostle  of 
culture  and  clear  intelligence.  Emerson  and  Car 
lyle  were  essentially  religious,  and  were  filled  with 
the  sentiment  of  the  infinite,  which  M.  Kenan  re 
gards  as  the  chief  gift  of  medievalism  to  the  modern 
world;  while  Arnold  is  essentially  critical,  and  is 
filled  with  the  sentiment  or  idea  of  culture,  which 
is  the  chief  gift  to  the  world  of  Greek  civilization. 
What  he  had  to  say  of  these  two  men  I  shall  con 
sider  in  another  chapter.  At  present  I  wish  to  take 
a  general  view  of  Arnold's  criticism  as  a  whole. 

Probably  the  need  for  the  urbanity  and  clear 
reason  which  Arnold  brings  is  just  as  urgent  as  the 
need  for  the  moral  fervor  and  conviction  which  Car 
lyle  brings;  if  not  to  us  in  this  country,  where  the 
conscience  of  man  needs  stimulating  more  than  his 
intellect  needs  clearing,  then  certainly  in  England, 
where  the  popular  mind  is  less  quick  and  flexi- 


82  INDOOR   STUDIES 

ble  than  in  America.  And  it  is  against  England, 
against  British  civilization,  that  the  force  of  Ar 
nold's  criticism  has  been  directed. 

The  application  to  America  of  the  main  drift  of 
his  criticism  of  British  civilization  is  lessened  not 
only  for  the  reason  above  hinted  at,  —  namely,  that 
the  race  refines  and  comes  into  shape  in  this  country 
faster  than  in  Britain,  faster,  perhaps,  than  the  due 
proportion  between  character  and  faculty  will  war 
rant,  —  but  because  class  distinctions  are  practically 
abolished  here,  and  because,  in  general,  there  is  not 
the  same  cramped,  inflexible,  artificial,  and  congested 
state  of  things  in  the  United  States  as  cause  all  the 
woe  of  England.  The  defects  in  our  civilization 
which  Arnold  pointed  out  in  a  paper  printed  just 
before  he  died,  —  namely,  that  our  country,  or  our 
doings  in  it,  are  not  interesting,  that  our  people  are 
wanting  in  the  discipline  of  awe  and  reverence,  that 
we  are  given  to  self-glorification,  that  our  news 
papers  are  flippant  and  sensational,  —  are  self-evi 
dent  to  all  candid  observers.  "In  what  concerns 
the  solving  of  the  political  and  social  problem,  they 
[the  people  of  the  United  States]  see  clear  and  think 
straight;  in  what  concerns  the  higher  civilization, 
they  live  in  a  fool's  paradise."  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  last  part  of  this  sentence  is  just  as  true  as  the 
first  part.  From  the  point  of  view  of  a  good  din 
ner,  —  a  point  of  view  not  to  be  despised  by  any 
means,  —  our  country  and  our  achievements  in  it  are 
very  interesting;  but  from  a  high  and  disinterested 
point  of  view  —  the  point  of  view  of  art  and  litera- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  83 

ture,  of  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the 
world  —  it  is  not  interesting. 

It  could  hardly  be  otherwise.  America  is  the 
product  of  the  commercial  and  industrial  age,  the 
age  of  prose.  Nearly  all  its  features  are  the  out 
come  of  a  spirit  that  makes  little  account  of  taste  or 
the  beautiful  —  the  spirit  of  gain.  The  spirit  that 
still  rules  it,  and  rules  more  or  less  all  modern 
European  nations,  is  the  spirit  of  gain,  the  greed  of 
wealth,  and  nothing  but  the  ugly,  the  prosaic,  can 
be  born  of  this  spirit.  The  Old  World  is  the  pro 
duct  of  quite  a  different  spirit,  the  religious  spirit 
and  the  spirit  of  chivalry  and  feudalism.  Life  seems 
much  riper  and  fuller  there,  —  has  much  more  flavor, 
and  one  can  well  see  how  a  cultivated  European 
would  find  America  almost  intolerable. 

Yet  the  two  principles  of  which  Arnold  makes  so 
much,  Hellenism  and  Hebraism,  the  power  of  ideas 
and  the  power  of  conduct,  are  doubtless  more  evenly 
blended  in  our  people  than  among  those  of  Great 
Britain.  Indeed,  it  often  appears  that,  if  we  need 
more  of  either,  it  is  of  the  latter  rather  than  of  the 
former,  a  little  more  of  the  old  Hebrew's  reverence 
and  depth  and  solemnity  of  character,  rather  than 
of  the  Hellene's  flexibility  and  desire  to  hear  or  to 
tell  some  new  thing. 

The  equality,  also,  for  which  Arnold  pleads,  we 
already  practically  have;  and  the  Irish  question,  the 
Church  and  the  State  question,  and  the  burning 
question,  May  a  man  marry  his  deceased  wife's  sis 
ter?  we  have  not.  But  the  question  of  culture, 


84  INDOOR   STUDIES 

of  taste,  of  literature,  of  institutions,  of  science,  of 
obedience,  and  of  a  just  mean  and  measure  in  life, 
we  have,  and  shall  always  have,  and  may  the  time 
be  far  removed  when  a  man  who  cherishes  such 
lofty  ideals  upon  all  these  subjects  as  did  Matthew 
Arnold  shall  not  find  eager  and  improving  listeners 
among  us.  Arnold  meant  authority  as  distinctly  as 
Carlyle  did,  but  the  authority  of  the  gentler  reason, 
and  not  of  the  hero. 

In  connecting  his  name  with  that  of  Carlyle,  let 
us  note  here  that  he  stood  as  much  alone  in  his  ar 
raignment  of  his  countrymen  as  the  great  Scotchman 
did,  and  was  as  little  identified  with  any  party,  sect, 
or  movement.  He  was  just  as  fearless  and  whole 
sale  in  his  criticisms,  but  far  more  cool  and  dispas 
sionate.  Carlyle  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  a 
reasonable  being ;  the  secret  of  his  influence  was  not 
his  reason,  but  his  genius  and  religious  fervor:  but 
there  is  no  getting  away  from  Arnold's  reasonable 
ness  (not  always  or  commonly  a  "sweet  reasonable 
ness  ; "  there  is  often  a  bitter  or  acrid  flavor  to  it), 
the  clearness  and  fullness  of  his  demonstration. 
Hence  he  was  probably  more  of  a  thorn  in  the  side 
of  John  Bull  than  was  Carlyle;  his  criticism  is 
harder  to  answer,  and  he  applied  it  with  an  air  of 
teasing  deference  and  simplicity,  or  of  restrained 
scorn  and  contempt,  which  makes  it  far  more  irritat 
ing  than  the  Scotchman's  explosions  of  wrath  and 
picturesque  indignation.  Carlyle  is  much  the  greater 
force,  much  the  more  impressive  and  stimulat 
ing,  but  he  is  also  much  the  more  bewildering  and 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  85 

misleading.  Arnold  has  reduced  the  Scotchman's 
strange  mixture  of  wrath  and  tenderness,  poetry  and 
eloquence,  prophecy  and  philosophy,  to  a  system, 
and  has  drawn  out  of  it  the  pure  metal  available  for 
a  sharp  and  telling  criticism.  Culture  and  Anarchy, 
Friendship's  Garland,  the  Mixed  Essays,  the  Irish 
Essays,  are  but  the  Latter-day  Pamphlets  and  Past 
and  Present  running  pure  and  clear.  What  was 
like  a  mountain  of  mixed  ores  in  the  latter,  becomes 
weapons  of  polished  steel  in  the  former.  Take  this 
passage  from  Past  and  Present:  — 

"Ask  Bull  his  spoken  opinion  of  any  matter, — 
oftentimes  the  force  of  dullness  can  no  farther  go. 
You  stand  silent,  incredulous,  as  over  a  platitude 
that  borders  on  the  Infinite.  The  man's  Church- 
isms,  Dissenterisms,  Puseyisms,  Benthamisms,  Col 
lege  Philosophies,  Fashionable  Literatures,  are  un 
exampled  in  this  world.  Fate's  prophecy  is  fulfilled; 
you  call  the  man  an  ox  or  an  ass.  But  get  him 
once  to  work,  —  respectable  man !  His  spoken  sense 
is  next  to  nothing,  nine  tenths  of  it  palpable  non- 
sense;  but  his  unspoken  sense,  his  inner  silent  feel 
ing  of  what  is  true,  what  does  agree  with  fact,  what 
is  doable  and  what  is  not  doable,  —  this  seeks  its 
fellow  in  the  world.  A  terrible  worker;  irresistible 
against  marshes,  mountains,  impediments,  disorder, 
incivilization;  everywhere  vanquishing  disorder,  leav 
ing  it  behind  him  as  method  and  order.  He  '  retires 
to  his  bed  three  days, '  and  considers !  " 

In  this  passage  of  strong  Carlylese,  and  in  many 
more  like  it,  lies  the  germ  of  Arnold's  indictment 


86  INDOOR   STUDIES 

of  his  countrymen,  that  they  lack  intelligence,  or 
Geist,  ability  to  deal  with  ideas,  and  that  they  are 
great  only  in  deeds,  in  works,  or  are  Hebraic 
rather  than  Hellenic. 

Carlyle  himself  was  terribly  given  to  Hebraizing, 
to  praising  work,  energy,  force,  and  to  spurning 
ideas,  except  when  embodied  in  a  man  or  hero. 
With  him  the  man  of  theory,  or  of  ideas,  cuts  a 
sorry  figure  beside  the  man  of  practice  or  of  deeds. 

"How  one  loves  to  see  the  burly  figure  of  him, 
—  this  thick-skinned,  seemingly  opaque,  perhaps 
sulky,  almost  stupid  Man  of  Practice,  pitted  against 
some  light,  adroit  Man  of  Theory,  all  equipped  with 
clear  logic,  and  able  everywhere  to  give  you  Why 
for  Wherefore.  The  adroit  Man  of  Theory,  so  light 
of  movement,  clear  of  utterance,  with  his  bow  full- 
bent,  and  his  quiver  full  of  arrow  arguments  —  surely 
he  will  strike  down  the  game,  transfix  everywhere 
the  heart  of  the  matter,  triumph  everywhere,  as  he 
proves  that  he  shall  and  must  do  ?  To  your  aston 
ishment  it  turns  out  oftenest  No.  The  cloudy- 
browed,  thick-soled,  opaque  Practicality,  with  no 
logic  utterance,  in  silence  mainly,  with  here  and 
there  a  low  grunt  or  growl,  has  in  him  what  tran 
scends  all  logic  utterance;  a  Congruity  with  the 
Unuttered,  the  Speakable,  which*  lies  atop,  as  a 
superficial  film,  or  outer  skin,  is  his  or  is  not  his; 
but  the  Doable,  which  reaches  down  to  the  world's 
centre,  you  find  him  there." 

Here  is  the  voice  of  Hebraism,  strong  and  trium 
phant,  as  in  Arnold  we  have  the  voice  of  Hellenism, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  87 

clear  and  triumphant.  Yet  Carlyle  was  not  so  much 
-on  the  side  of  the  man  of  deeds  as  opposed  to  the 
man  of  ideas,  as  he  was  on  the  side  of  reality  as 
opposed  to  shams.  His  mistake  probably  was  too 
great  haste  in  pronouncing  all  theories  shams,  and 
all  force  beneficent. 

The  keynote  of  Arnold's  criticism  of  his  country 
men  might  also  be  found  in  Emerson's  "English 
Traits."  Emerson  charges  the  English  with  the 
same  want  of  ideas,  and  credits  them  with  the  same 
noble  Hebraizing  tendency.  The  English  do  not 
look  abroad  into  universality,  he  said,  quoting 
Bacon.  Bacon,  he  said,  marked  the  influx  of 
idealism  into  England.  ' '  He  had  imagination,  the 
leisure  of  the  spirit,  and  basked  in  an  element  of 
contemplation."  "  German  science  comprehends 
the  English."  The  latter  is  "void  of  imagination 
and  free  play  of  thought,"  using  the  very  phrase 
which  Arnold  has  made  so  telling  and  significant. 
Arnold  shows  his  genius  in  the  way  he  seizes  upon 
and  expands  these  ideas.  What  was  a  casual 
thought  or  remark  with  others,  in  his  hands  becomes 
the  axis  of  a  great  critical  system.  What  was  wit, 
or  poetry,  or  a  happy  characterization  with  Carlyle 
and  Emerson,  furnishes  him  the  start  for  a  most 
searching  and  original  analysis. 

Arnold  was  preeminently  a  critical  force,  a  force 
of  clear  reason  and  of  steady  discernment.  He  is 
not  an  author  whom  we  read  for  the  man's  sake,  or 
for  the  flavor  of  his  personality,  —  for  this  is  not  al 
ways  agreeable,  —  but  for  his  unfailing  intelligence 


88  INDOOR   STUDIES 

and  critical  acumen ;  and  because,  to  borrow  a  sen 
tence  of  Goethe,  he  helps  us  to  "  attain  certainty  and 
security  in  the  appreciation  of  things  exactly  as  they 
are."  Everywhere  in  his  books  we  are  brought 
under  the  influence  of  a  mind  which  indeed  does  not 
fill  and  dilate  us,  but  which  clears  our  vision,  which 
sets  going  a  process  of  crystallization  in  our  thoughts, 
and  brings  our  knowledge,  on  a  certain  range  of 
subjects,  to  a  higher  state  of  clearness  and  purity. 

Let  us  admit  that  he  is  not  a  man  to  build  upon; 
he  is  in  no  sense  a  founder;  he  lacks  the  broad, 
paternal,  sympathetic  human  element  that  the  first 
order  of  men  possess.  He  lays  the  emphasis  upon 
the  more  select,  high-bred  qualities.  All  his  sym 
pathies  are  with  the  influences  which  make  for 
correctness,  for  discipline,  for  taste,  for  perfection, 
rather  than  those  that  favor  power,  freedom,  origi 
nality,  individuality,  and  the  more  heroic  and  pri 
mary  qualities. 

It  is  to  be  owned  that  there  is  a  quality,  a  stimu 
lus,,  and  helpfulness,  which  we  must  not  expect  of 
Arnold;  a  power  of  poetry  which  his  poems,  perfect 
as  they  are,  do  not  afford  us,  but  which  we  get  in 
much  greater  measure  from  poets  far  his  inferior  in 
intelligence  and  thoroughness  of  culture,  as  in  a  few 
poems  of  Keats;  a  power  of  prose  which  his  lucid 
sentences  do  not  hold;  and  a  power  of  criticism 
which  his  coolness  and  disinterestedness  do  not 
attain  to.  But  this  last  we  must  probably  go  out 
side  of  English  literature  to  find. 

Arnold  was  a    civilizing  and  centralizing    force. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  89 

Out  of  the  spirit  which  he  begets,  and  which  begat 
'him,  do  not  come  the  great  leaders  and  reformers, 
the  one-sided,  headstrong,  fanatical  men,  men  that 
serve  as  the  plowshare  of  the  destinies  to  break  up 
the  stubborn  glebe  of  the  world;  but  the  wise,  the 
correct,  the  urbane,  the  flexible  men,  the  men  who 
reap  and  enjoy  and  beautify  the  world.  He  says, 
in  effect,  there  are  enough  insisting  upon  force,  upon 
genius,  upon  independence,  upon  rights ;  he  will  lay 
the  stress  upon  culture,  and  upon  duties,  and  upon 
those  things  that  make  for  perfection. 

The  more  vital  and  active  forces  of  English  liter 
ature  of  our  century  have  been  mainly  forces  of  ex 
pansion  and  revolution,  or  Protestant  forces;  our 
most  puissant  voices  have  been  voices  of  dissent,  and 
have  been  a  stimulus  to  individuality,  separatism, 
and  to  independence.  But  here  is  a  voice  of  an 
other  order;  a  voice  closely  allied  to  the  best  spirit 
of  Catholicism ;  one  from  which  we  shall  not  learn 
hero-worship,  or  Puritanism,  or  nonconformity,  nor 
catch  the  spark  of  enthusiasm,  or  evolution,  but 
from  which  we  learn  the  beauty  of  urbanity,  and 
the  value  of  clear  and  fresh  ideas. 

One  never  doubts  Arnold's  ability  to  estimate  a 
purely  literary  and  artistic  force,  but  one  sees  that  it 
is  by  no  means  certain  that  he  will  fully  appreciate 
a  force  of  character,  a  force  of  patriotism,  of  con 
science,  of  religion,  or  any  of  the  more  violent  revo 
lutionary  forces,  —  that  is,  apart  from  a  literary  rep 
resentation  of  them,  —  because  his  point  of  view  does 
not  command  these  things  so  completely  as  it  does 


90  INDOOR   STUDIES 

the  other.  Emerson  was  a  literary  force,  but  above 
and  beyond  that  he  was  a  religious  force,  a  force  of 
genius  and  of  good  breeding.  The  dissenters,  the 
English  Puritans,  the  French  Huguenots,  embody 
a  force  of  conscience.  Carlyle  was  a  force  of  Puri 
tanism,  blended  with  a  force  antagonistic  to  it,  the 
force  of  German  culture,  —  two  forces  that  did  not 
work  well  together  and  which  gave  him  no  rest. 

Arnold  was  a  literary  force  of  a  very  high  order, 
but  was  he  anything  else  ?  Will  he  leave  any  per 
manent  mark  upon  the  conscience,  upon  the  politics, 
upon  the  thought  of  his  countrymen?  His  works, 
as  models  of  urbanity  and  lucidity,  will  endure ;  still 
they  do  not  contain  the  leaven  which  leavens  and 
modifies  races  and  times. 

The  impression  that  a  fragmentary  and  desultory 
reading  of  Arnold  is  apt  to  give  one,  —  namely,  that 
he  is  one  of  the  scorners,  a  man  of  "a  high  look 
and  a  proud  heart, "  —  gradually  wears  away  as  one 
grows  familiar  with  the  main  currents  of  his  teach 
ings.  He  does  not  indeed  turn  out  to  be  a  large, 
hearty,  magnetic  man,  but  he  proves  to  be  a 
thoroughly  serious  and  noble  one,  whose  calmness 
and  elevation  are  of  great  value.  His  writings,  as 
now  published  in  a  uniform  edition,  embrace  ten 
volumes,  to  wit:  two  volumes  of  poems;  two  vol 
umes  of  literary  essays,  "  Essays  in  Criticism  "  and 
a  volume  made  up  of  "  Celtic  Literature  "  and  "  On 
Translating  Homer ; "  a  volume  of  mixed  essays, 
mainly  on  Irish  themes;  a  volume  called  "Culture 
and  Anarchy'7  containing  also  "Friendship's  Gar- 


MATTHEW   AKNOLD'S   CRITICISM  91 

land,"  mainly  essays  in  political  and  social  criticism; 
three  volumes  of  religious  criticism,  namely,  "Liter 
ature  and  Dogma,"  "God  and  the  Bible,"  and  "St. 
Paul  and  Protestantism,"  with  "Last  Essays;"  and 
one  volume  of  "Discourses  in  America."  Of  this 
body  of  work  the  eight  volumes  of  prose  are  pure 
criticism,  and  by  criticism,  when  applied  to  Arnold, 
we  must  mean  the  scientific  passion  for  pure  truth, 
the  passion  for  seeing  the  thing  exactly  as  it  is 
carried  into  all  fields.  "I  wish  to  decide  nothing  as 
of  my  own  authority,"  he  says  in  one  of  his  earlier 
essays;  "the  great  art  of  criticism  is  to  get  one's  self 
out  of  the  way  and  to  let  humanity  decide."  He 
would  play  the  role  of  a  disinterested  observer.  Apro 
pos  of  his  political  and  social  criticisms,  he  says :  — 

"I  do  not  profess  to  be  a  politician,  but  simply 
one  of  a  disinterested  class  of  observers,  who,  with 
no  organized  and  embodied  set  of  supporters  to 
please,  set  themselves  to  observe  honestly  and  to 
report  faithfully  the  state  and  prospects  of  our  civ 
ilization.  " 

He  urges  that  criticism  in  England  has  been  too 
"directly  polemical  and  controversial;"  that  it  has 
been  made  to  subserve  interests  not  its  own,  —  the 
interest  of  party,  of  a  sect,  of  a  theory,  or  of  some 
practical  and  secondary  consideration.  His  own 
effort  has  been  to  restore  it  to  its  "  pure  intellectual 
sphere,"  and  to  keep  its  high  aim  constantly  before 
him,  "which  is  to  keep  man  from  a  self-satisfaction 
which  is  retarding  and  vulgarizing;  to  lead  him 
towards  perfection  by  making  his  mind  dwell  upon 


92  INDOOR   STUDIES 

what  is  excellent  in  itself,  and  the  absolute  beauty 
and  fitness  of  things. " 

The  spirit  in  which  he  approaches  Butler's 
"  Analogy  "  is  a  fair  sample  of  the  spirit  in  which 
he  approaches  most  of  his  themes :  — 

"Elsewhere  I  have  remarked  what  advantage  But 
ler  had  against  the  Deists  of  his  own  time  in  the 
line  of  argument  which  he  chose.  But  how  does 
his  argument  in  itself  stand  the  scrutiny  of  one  who 
has  no  counter- thesis,  such  as  that  of  the  Deists,  to 
make  good  against  Butler?  How  does  it  affect  one 
who  has  no  wish  at  all  to  doubt  or  cavil,  like  the 
loose  wits  of  fashionable  society  who  angered  Butler, 
still  less  any  wish  to  mock,  but  who  comes  to  the 
'Analogy  '  with  an  honest  desire  to  receive  from  it 
anything  which  he  finds  he  can  use  ? " 

Matthew  Arnold  was  probably  the  most  deeply 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  Greek  culture  of  any  Eng 
lish  man  of  letters  of  our  time.  It  is  not  that  he 
brings  a  modern  mind  to  classic  themes,  as  has  been 
so  often  done  by  our  poets  and  essayists,  but  that  he 
brings  a  classic  mind  to  modern  themes,  herein  differ 
ing  so  widely  from  such  a  writer,  for  instance,  as 
Mr.  Addington  Symonds,  who  has  written  so  much 
and  so  well  upon  classic  subjects,  but  in  the  modern 
romantic  spirit,  rather  than  with  the  pure  simplicity 
of  the  antique, —  in  the  spirit  whose  ruling  sense  is 
a  sense  of  the  measureless,  rather  than  of  measure. 
"Hellenic  virtue,"  says  Dr.  Curtius,  the  German 
historian  of  Greece,  "consisted  in  measure,"  —  "a 
wise  observance  of  right  measure  in  all  things." 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  93 

Arnold  divides  the  forces  that  move  the  world  into 
two  grand  divisions,  —  Hellenism  and  Hebraism,  the 
Greek  idea  and  the  Jewish  idea,  the  power  of  intel 
lect  and  the  power  of  conscience.  "The  uppermost 
idea  with  Hellenism  is  to  see  things  as  they  really 
are ;  the  uppermost  idea  with  Hebraism  is  conduct 
and  obedience.  Nothing  can  do  away  with  this  in 
effaceable  difference.  The  Greek  quarrel  with  the 
body  and  its  desires  is  that  they  hinder  right  think 
ing;  the  Hebrew  quarrel  with  them  is  that  they 
hinder  right  acting."  "An  unclouded  clearness  of 
mind,  an  unimpeded  play  of  thought, "  is  the  aim  of 
the  one;  "strictness  of  conscience,"  fidelity  to  prin 
ciple,  is  the  mainspring  of  the  other.  As,  in  this 
classification,  Carlyle  would  stand  for  unmitigated 
Hebraism,  so  Arnold  himself  stands  for  pure  Hellen 
ism;  as  the  former's  Hebraism  upon  principle  was 
backed  up  by  the  Hebraic  type  of  mind,  its  grandeur, 
its  stress  of  conscience,  its  opulent  imagination,  its 
cry  for -judgment  and  justice,  etc.,  so  Arnold's  con 
viction  of  the  superiority  of  Hellenism  as  a  remedy 
for  modern  ills  is  backed  up  by  the  Hellenic  type  of 
mind,  its  calmness,  its  lucidity,  its  sense  of  form  and 
measure.  Indeed,  Arnold  is  probably  the  purest 
classic  writer  that  English  literature,  as  yet,  has  to 
show ;  classic  not  merely  in  the  repose  and  purity  of 
his  style,  but  in  the  unity  and  simplicity  of  his 
mind.  What  primarily  distinguishes  the  antique 
mind  from  the  modern  mind  is  its  more  fundamental 
singleness  and  wholeness.  It  is  not  marked  by  the 
same  specialization  and  development  on  particular 


94  INDOOR    STUDIES 

lines.  Our  highly  artificial  and  complex  modern 
life  leads  to  separatism;  to  not  only  a  division  of 
labor,  but  almost  to  a  division  of  man  himself. 
With  the  ancients,  religion  and  politics,  literature 
and  science,  poetry  and  prophecy,  were  one.  These 
things  had  not  yet  been  set  apart  from  each  other  and 
differentiated.  When  to  this  we  add  vital  unity  and 
simplicity,  the  love  of  beauty,  and  the  sense  of 
measure  and  proportion,  we  have  the  classic  mind 
of  Greece,  and  the  secret  of  the  power  and  charm  of 
those  productions  which  have  so  long  ruled  supreme 
in  the  world  of  literature  and  art.  Arnold's  mind 
has  this  classic  unity  and  wholeness.  With  him 
religion,  politics,  literature,  and  science  are  one,  and 
that  one  is  comprehended  under  the  name  of  culture. 
Culture  means  the  perfect  and  equal  development  of 
man  on  all  sides. 

"Culture,"  he  says,  giving  vent  to  his  Hellenism, 
"is  of  like  spirit  with  poetry,  follows  one  law  with 
poetry:  "  the  dominant  idea  of  poetry  is  "the  idea 
of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  in  all  its 
sides;"  this  idea  is  the  Greek  idea.  "Human  life," 
he  says,  "in  the  hands  of  Hellenism,  is  invested 
with  a  kind  of  aerial  ease,  clearness,  and  radiancy ; 
it  is  full  of  what  we  call  sweetness  and  light." 
"The  best  art  and  poetry  of  the  Greeks,"  he  says, 
"  in  which  religion  and  poetry  are  one,  in  which  the 
idea  of  beauty  and  of  human  nature  perfect  on  all 
sides  adds  to  itself  a  religious  and  devout  energy,  and 
works  in  the  strength  of  that,  is  on  this  account  of 
such  surpassing  interest  and  instructiveness  for  us." 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  95 

But  Greece  failed  because  the  moral  and  religious 
fibre  in  humanity  was  not  braced  and  developed  also. 

"  But  Greece  did  not  err  in  having  the  idea  of 
beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection  so 
present  and  paramount.  It  is  impossible  to  have 
this  idea  too  present  and  paramount;  only,  the 
moral  fibre  must  be  braced,  too.  And  we,  because 
we  have  braced  the  moral  fibre,  are  not  on  that  ac 
count  in  the  right  way,  if  at  the  same  time  the  idea 
of  beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection 
is  wanting  or  misapprehended  amongst  us;  and  evi 
dently  it  is  wanting  or  misapprehended  at  present. 
And  when  we  rely,  as  we  do,  on  our  religious  organi 
zations,  which  in  themselves  do  not  and  cannot  give 
us  this  idea,  and  think  we  have  done  enough  if  we 
make  them  spread  and  prevail,  then  I  say  we  fall  into 
our  common  fault  of  overvaluing  machinery." 

From  the  point  of  view  of  Greek  culture,  and  the 
ideal  of  Greek  life,  there  is  perhaps  very  little  in 
the  achievements  of  the  English  race,  or  in  the  ideals 
which  it  cherishes,  that  would  not  be  pronounced 
the  work  of  barbarians.  From  the  Apollinarian 
standpoint,  Christianity  itself,  with  its  war  upon 
our  natural  instincts,  is  a  barbarous  religion.  But 
no  born  Hellene  from  the  age  of  Pericles  could 
pronounce  a  severer  judgment  upon  the  England  of 
to-day  than  Arnold  has  in  his  famous  classification 
of  his  countrymen  into  Barbarians,  Philistines,  and 
Populace,  —  an  upper  class  materialized,  a  middle 
class  vulgarized,  and  a  lower  class  brutalized.  Ar 
nold  had  not  the  Hellenic  joyousness,  youthfulness, 


96  INDOOR    STUDIES 

and  spontaneity.  His  is  a  *  *  sad  lucidity  of  soul, " 
whereas  the  Greek  had  a  joyous  lucidity  of  soul. 
"0  Solon,  Solon!"  said  the  priest  of  Egypt,  "you 
Greeks  are  always  children.'7  But  the  Englishman 
had  the  Greek  passion  for  symmetry,  totality,  and 
the  Hellenic  abhorrence  of  the. strained,  the  fantas 
tic,  the  ohscure.  His  were  not  merely  the  classi 
cal  taste  and  predilections  of  a  scholar,  but  of  an 
alert,  fearless,  and  thoroughgoing  critic  of  life;  a 
man  who  dared  lay  his  hands  on  the  British  constitu 
tion  itself  and  declare  that  "with  its  compromises, 
its  love  of  facts,  its  horror  of  theory,  its  studied 
avoidance  of  clear  thought,  it  sometimes  looks  a  co 
lossal  machine  for  the  manufacture  of  Philistines." 
Milton  was  swayed  by  the  Greek  ideals  in  his 
poetry,  but  they  took  no  vital  hold  of  his  life;  his 
Puritanism  and  his  temper  in  his  controversial  writ 
ings  are  the  farthest  possible  remove  from  the  seren 
ity  and  equipose  of  the  classic  standards.  But 
Arnold,  a  much  less  poetic  force  certainly  than  Mil 
ton,  was  animated  by  the  spirit  of  Hellenism  on  all 
occasions;  it  was  the  shaping  and  inspiring  spirit 
of  his  life.  It  was  not  a  dictum  with  him,  but 
a  force.  Yet  his  books  are  thoroughly  of  to-day, 
thoroughly  occupied  with  current  men  and  meas 
ures,  and  covered  with  current  names  and  allusions. 
Arnold's  Hellenism  speaks  very  pointedly  all 
through  "Culture  and  Anarchy,"  in  all  those  as 
saults  of  his  upon  the  "  hideousness  and  rawness  "  of 
so  much  of  British  civilization,  upon  the  fierceness 
and  narrowness,  the  Jacobinism  of  parties,  upon 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  97 

"the  Dissidence  of  Dissent,  and  the  Protestantism 
of  the  Protestant  religion ; "  in  his  efforts  to  divest 
the  mind  of  all  that  is  harsh,  uncouth,  impenetrable, 
exclusive,  self-willed,  one-sided;  in  his  efforts  to  ren 
der  it  more  flexible,  tolerant,  free,  lucid,  with  less 
faith  in  individuals  and  more  faith  in  principles. 
They  speak  in  him  when  he  calls  Luther  a  Philis 
tine  of  genius;  when  he  says  of  the  mass  of  his 
countrymen  that  they  have  "a  defective  type  of  re 
ligion,  a  narrow  range  of  intellect  and  knowledge,  a 
stunted  sense  of  beauty,  a  low  standard  of  manner ;  " 
that  "Puritanism  was  a  prison  which  the  English 
people  entered  and  had  the  key  turned  upon  its 
spirit  there  for  two  hundred  years ; "  when  he  tells 
the  dissenters  that  in  preferring  their  religious  ser 
vice  to  that  of  the  established  church  they  have 
shown  a  want  of  taste  and  of  culture  like  that  of 
preferring  Eliza  Cook  to  Milton.  "A  public  rite 
with  a  reading  of  Milton  attached  to  it  is  another 
thing  from  a  public  rite  with  a  reading  from  Eliza 
Cook." 

His  ideas  of  poetry  as  expressed  in  the  preface  to 
his  poems  in  1853  are  distinctly  Greek,  and  they  led 
him  to  exclude  from  the  collection  his  long  poem 
called  "Empedocles  on  Etna,"  because  the  poem 
was  deficient  in  the  classic  requirements  of  action. 
He  says :  — 

"  The  radical  difference  between  the  poetic  theo: 
of  the  Greeks  and  our  own  is  this :  that  with  them 
the  poetical  character  of  the  action  in  itself,  and  the 
conduct  of  it,  was  the  first  consideration;  with  us, 


ry( 


98  INDOOR   STUDIES 

attention  is  fixed  mainly  on  the  value  of  the  separate 
thoughts  and  images  which  occur  in  the  treatment 
of  an  action.  They  regarded  the  whole;  we  regard 
the  parts.  We  have  poems  which  seem  to  exist 
merely  for  the  sake  of  single  lines  and  passages,  not 
for  the  sake  of  producing  any  total  impression. 
We  have  critics  who  seem  to  direct  their  attention 
merely  to  detached  expressions,  to  the  language  about 
the  action,  not  to  the  action  itself.  I  verily  think 
that  the  majority  of  them  do  not  in  their  hearts 
believe  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  total  im 
pression  to  be  derived  from  a  poem  at  all,  or  to 
be  demanded  from  a  poet;  they  think  the  term  a 
commonplace  of  metaphysical  criticism.  They  will 
permit  the  poet  to  select  any  action  he  pleases,  and 
to  suffer  that  action  to  go  as  it  will,  provided  he 
gratifies  them  with  occasional  bursts  of  fine  writ 
ing,  and  with  a  shower  of  isolated  thoughts  and 
images.  That  is,  they  permit  him  to  leave  their 
poetical  sense  ungratified,  provided  that  he  gratifies 
^  their  rhetorical  sense  and  their  curiosity." 

Here  we  undoubtedly  have  the  law  as  deducible 
from  the  Greek  poets,  and  perhaps  as  deducible  from 
the  principles  of  perfect  taste  itself.  Little  wonder 
Arnold  found  Emerson's  poems  so  unsatisfactory, 
—  Emerson,  the  most  unclassical  of  poets,  with  no 
proper  sense  of  wholeness  at  all,  no  continuity,  no 
power  to  deal  with  actions.  Emerson  has  great  pro 
jectile  power,  but  no  constructive  power.  His  aim 
was  mainly  to  shoot  a  thought  or  an  image  on  a  line 
like  a  meteor  athwart  the  imagination  of  his  reader, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM  99 

to  kindle  and  quicken  his  feeling  for  beautiful  and 
sublime  truths.  Valuable  as  these  things  are,  it  is 
to  be  admitted  that  those  poems  that  are  concrete 
wholes,  like  the  organic  products  of  nature,  will 
always  rank  the  higher  with  a  pure  artistic  taste. 

Whatever  be  our  opinion  of  the  value  of  his  criti 
cism,  we  must  certainly  credit  Arnold  with  a  steady 
and  sincere  effort  to  see  things  whole,  to  grasp  the 
totality  of  life,  all  the  parts  duly  subordinated 
and  brought  into  harmony  with  one  another.  His 
watchword  on  all  occasions  is  totality,  or  perfection. 
He  has  shown  us  the  shortcomings  of  Puritanism,  of 
Liberalism,  and  of  all  forms  of  religious  dissent, 
when  tried  by  the  spirit  of  Hellenism.  We  have 
been  made  to  see  very  clearly  wherein  John  Bull 
is  not  a  Greek,  and  we  can  divine  the  grounds 
of  his  irritation  by  the  comparison.  It  is  because 
the  critic  could  look  in  the  face  of  his  great  achieve 
ment  in  the  world  and  blame  him  for  being  John 
Bull.  The  concession  that  after  all  he  at  times  in 
his  history  exhibited  the  grand  style,  the  style  of 
the  Homeric  poems,  was  a  compliment  he  did  not 
appreciate. 

"English  civilization,  the  humanizing,  the  bring 
ing  into  one  harmonious  and  truly  human  life  of 
the  whole  body  of  English  society,  —  that  is  what 
interests  me.  I  try  to  be  a  disinterested  observer 
of  all  which  really  helps  and  hinders  that." 

He  recognizes  four  principal  needs  in  the  life  of 
every  people  and  community,  —  the  need  of  conduct, 
the  need  of  beauty,  the  need  of  knowledge,  and  the 


100  INDOOR   STUDIES 

need  of  social  life  and  manners.  The  English  have 
the  sense  of  the  power  of  conduct,  the  Italians  the 
sense  of  the  power  of  beauty,  the  Germans  the 
sense  of  the  power  of  knowledge  or  science,  the 
French  the  sense  of  the  power  of  social  life  and 
manners.  All  these  things  are  needed  for  our 
complete  humanization  or  civilization;  the  ancient 
Greeks  came  nearer  possessing  the  whole  of  them, 
and  of  moving  on  all  these  lines,  than  any  other 
people.  The  ground  of  his  preference  for  the  his 
toric  churches,  the  Catholic  and  the  Anglican,  over 
the  dissenting  churches  is  that,  while  they  all  have 
a  false  philosophy  of  religion,  the  former  address 
themselves  to  more  needs  of  human  life  than  the 
latter. 

"The  need  for  beauty  is  a  real  and  now  rapidly 
growing  need  in  man:  Puritanism  cannot  satisfy 
it;  Catholicism  and  the  English  Church  can.  The 
need  for  intellect  and  knowledge  in  him,  indeed, 
neither  Puritanism,  nor  Catholicism,  nor  the  Eng 
lish  Church,  can  at  present  satisfy.  That  need  has 
to  seek  satisfaction  nowadays  elsewhere,  —  through 
the  modern  spirit,  science,  literature." 

He  avers  that  Protestantism  has  no  intellectual 
superiority  over  Catholicism,  but  only  a  moral  su 
periority  arising  from  greater  seriousness  and  ear 
nestness.  Neither  have  the  Greek  wholeness  and 
proportion.  The  attitude  of  the  one  towards  the 
Bible  is  as  unreasoning  as  the  attitude  of  the  other 
towards  the  church. 

"The  mental  habit    of   him  who  imagines    that 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         101 

Balaam's  ass  spoke,  in  no  respect  differs  from  the 
mental  habit  of  him  who  imagines  that  a  Madonna, 
of  wood  or  stone,  winked." 

The  most  that  can  be  claimed  for  each  sect,  each 
church,  each  party,  is  that  it  is  free  from  some  special 
bondage  which  still  confines  the  mind  of  some  other 
sect  or  party.  Those,  indeed,  are  free  whom  the 
truth  makes  free ;  but  each  sect  and  church  has  only 
a  fragment  of  the  truth,  a  little  here  and  a  little 
there.  Both  Catholic  and  Protestant  have  the  germ 
of  religion,  and  both  have  a  false  philosophy  of  the 
germ. 

"But  Catholicism  has  the  germ  invested  in  an 
immense  poetry,  the  gradual  work  of  time  and  na 
ture,  and  of  the  great  impersonal  artist,  Catholic 
Christendom. " 

The  unity  or  identity  of  literature  and  religion,  as 
with  the  Greeks, —  this  is  the  animating  idea  of  "  Lit 
erature  and  Dogma."  In  this  work  Arnold  brings 
his  Hellenism  to  bear  upon  the  popular  religion  and 
the  dogmatic  interpretation  of  the  Bible,  upon  which 
the  churches  rest;  and  the  result  is  that  we  get 
from  him  a  literary  interpretation  of  the  Bible,  a 
free  and  plastic  interpretation,  as  distinguished  from 
the  hard,  literal,  and  historical  interpretation.  He 
reads  the  Bible  as  literature,  and  not  as  history  or 
science.  He  seeks  its  verification  in  an  appeal  to 
taste,  to  the  simple  reason,  to  the  fitness  of  things. 
He  finds  that  the  Biblical  writers  used  words  in  a 
large  and  free  way,  in  a  fluid  and  literary  way,  and 
not  at  all  with  the  exactness  and  stringency  of  science 


102  INDOOR   STUDIES 

or  mathematics;  or,  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  said  of 
his  own  works,  that  many  things  are  to  be  taken  in 
a  "soft  and  flexible  sense." 

In  other  words,  the  aim  of  Arnold's  religious  criti 
cism  is  to  rescue  what  he  calls  the  natural  truth  of 
Christianity  from  the  discredit  and  downfall  which 
he  thinks  he  sees  overtaking  its  unnatural  truth,  its 
reliance  upon  miracles  and  the  supernatural.  The 
ground,  he  says,  is  slipping  from  under  these  things; 
the  time  spirit  is  against  them ;  and  unless  something 
is  done  the  very  heart  and  core  of  Christianity  itself, 
as  found  in  the  teachings  of  Christ,  will  be  lost  to 
the  mass  of  mankind.  Upon  this  phase  of  Arnold's 
criticism  I  have  this  to  remark:  it  is  difficult  to  see 
how  Christianity,  as  a  people's  religion,  can  be  pre 
served  by  its  natural  or  verifiable  truth  alone.  This 
natural  truth  the  world  has  always  had;  it  bears 
the  same  relation  to  Christianity  that  the  primary 
and  mineral  elements  bear  to  a  living  organism: 
what  is  distinctive  and  valuable  in  Christianity  is 
the  incarnation  of  these  truths  in  a  living  system  of 
beliefs  and  observances  which  not  only  take  hold 
of  men's  minds,  but  which  move  their  hearts. 

We  may  extract  the  natural  truth  of  Christianity, 
a  system  of  morality  or  of  ethics,  and  to  certain 
minds  this  is  enough ;  but  it  is  no  more  Christianity 
than  the  extract  of  lilies  or  roses  is  a  flower-garden. 
"Religion,"  Arnold  well  says,  "is  morality  touched 
with  emotion."  It  is  just  this  element  of  emotion 
which  we  should  lose  if  we  reduced  Christianity  to 
its  natural  truths.  Show  a  man  the  natural  or 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         103 

scientific  truth  of  answer  to  prayer,  that  is,  that  an 
swer  to  prayer  is  a  purely  subjective  phenomenon, 
and  his  lips  are  sealed ;  teach  him  the  natural  truth 
of  salvation  by  Jesus  Christ,  namely,  that  self-re 
nunciation,  that  love,  that  meekness,  that  dying  for 
others,  is  saving,  and  the  emotion  evaporates  from 
his  religion. 

It  is,  he  says,  the  natural  truth  of  Christianity 
that  he  is  after:  but  it  is  not  the  natural  truth  that 
the  world  wants;  it  is  not  this  that  has  saved  men 
and  that  still  saves  them,  that  is,  holds  them  up 
to  the  standard  of  their  better  selves  and  sustains 
them  in  a  life  of  solitude  and  virtue.  It  is  the 
legendary  or  artificial  truth  of  Christianity  which 
does  this,  that  which  the  human  heart,  in  its  fear, 
its  faith,  its  hope,  its  credulity,  or  in  all  combined, 
supplies.  It  is  what  Arnold  calls  extra-belief,  or 
Aberglaube,  the  part  he  is  trying  to  get  rid  of,  that 
makes  Christianity  a  power  for  good  over  the  mass 
of  mankind.  Aberglaube,  Goethe  said,  is  the  po 
etry  of  life,  and  it  is  just  this  superadded  element  to 
Christianity  that  to  the  mass  of  mankind  give  its 
charm,  its  attraction,  its  truth  to  their  hearts  and  im 
aginations.  It  is  this  that  touches  the  natural  truth 
of  Christianity  with  emotion  and  makes  it  fruitful. 
It  is  true  that  this  Aberglaube  or  superstition  is 
not  science,  though  it  perpetually  imagines  itself  to 
be  so,  but  it  is  nevertheless  real  to  the  hearts  and 
faiths  of  men.  To  show  them  that  it  is  not  real,  that 
it  is  not  science,  is  to  strip  the  tree  of  its  leaves: 
the  tree  will  perish;  the  natural  truth  of  Chris- 


104  INDOOR   STUDIES 

tianity  will  not  save  it  to  the  masses.  They  can  do 
nothing  with  the  natural  truth;  the  fairy  tale,  the 
extra-belief,  or  the  superstition,  —  whatever  you 
please  to  call  it,  —  must  be  added.  Arnold  himself 
says:  "That  the  spirit  of  man  should  entertain 
hopes  and  anticipations,  beyond  what  it  actually 
knows  and  can  verify,  is  quite  natural."  Yes,  and 
beyond  what  is  actually  true.  "  Human  life  could 
not  have  the  scope,  and  depth,  and  progress  it  has 
were  this  otherwise." 

The  reader's  mind  does  not  pass  readily  from  Ar 
nold's  disbelief  in  what  is  called  revealed  religion  to 
his  advocacy  of  any  church  or  form  of  worship ;  from 
his  scientific  passion,  his  effort  to  see  things  exactly 
as  they  are,  to  his  defense  of  empty  and  unmeaning 
forms.  There  is  a  break  here,  a  fault  in  his  mind. 
There  is  no  logical  connection  between  his  attitude 
in  reference  to  the  interpretation  of  the  Bible  and 
his  advocacy  of  a  form  of  religious  worship  upheld 
by  the  state. 

If  we  give  up  the  dogma,  we  must  give  up  the  rite 
founded  upon  the  dogma.  Our  churches  must  be 
come  halls  of  science  or  temples  of  art.  Can  we 
worship  an  impersonal  law  or  tendency  1  If  public 
worship  is  to  be  continued,  if  church  organization  is 
still  to  go  on,  as  Mr.  Arnold  advocates,  it  is  impos 
sible  to  see  how  the  natural  truth  of  Christianity 
will  alone  suffice.  The  truths  of  the  Bible  differ 
from  the  truths  of  science  just  as  a  picture  or  a  par 
able  differs  from  an  exact  statement;  not  that  they 
are  any  more  true,  but  that  they  are  true  in  a  way 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM          105 

that  makes  them  take  a  deeper  hold  upon  the  spirit. 
Science  knows  as  clearly  as  religion  that  "the  face 
-of  the  Lord  is  against  them  that  do  evil,7'  but  does 
it  know  it  in  just  the  intimate  and  personal  way? 
It  knows  it  only  as  it  knows  the  truth  of  one  of 
Kepler's  laws,  by  a  process  of  cool  ratiocination;  but 
religion  knows  it  through  an  emotional  process,  into 
which  the  personal  elements  of  love  and  fear  enter. 
I  am  not  discussing  the  superiority  of  one  mode  of 
belief  over  the  other;  I  only  urge  that  worship  has 
its  rise  in  the  latter  and  not  in  the  former.  Reason 
is  not  the  basis  of  a  national  religion,  and  never  has 
been.  It  is  very  doubtful  if  the  disclosure  of  a 
scientific  basis  for  the  truths  of  religion  would  not 
be  a  positive  drawback  to  the  religious  efficacy  of 
those  truths,  because  this  view  of  them  would  come 
in  time  to  supplant  and  to  kill  the  personal  emo 
tional  view  which  worship  requires. 

It  is  therefore  considered  as  religion,  as  the  basis 
of  public  worship,  that  Arnold  does  injustice  to  the 
popular  faith.  As  science,  or  philosophy,  what  he 
has  to  offer  may  be  much  more  acceptable  to  certain 
advanced  minds,  but  to  the  race  as  a  whole  a  sub 
limated  extract  of  Christianity  can  never  take  the 
place  of  the  old  palpable  concrete  forms.  In  fact, 
getting  at  the  natural  truths  of  a  people's  religion  is 
very  much  like  burning  their  temples  and  their  idols 
and  offering  them  the  ashes. 

Another  form  which  Arnold's  Hellenism  takes  is 
that  it  begets  in  him  what  we  may  call  the  spirit  of 


106  INDOOR   STUDIES 

institutionalism,  as  opposed  to  the  spirit  of  individ 
ualism.  Greek  culture  centres  in  institutions,  and 
the  high  character  of  their  literary  and  artistic  pro 
ductions  was  the  expression  of  qualities  which  did 
not  merely  belong  to  individuals  here  and  there,  but 
were  current  in  the  nation  as  a  whole.  With  the 
Greek  the  state  was  supreme.  He  lived  and  died 
for  the  state.  He  had  no  private,  separate  life  and 
occupation,  as  has  the  modern  man.  The  arts,  ar 
chitecture,  sculpture,  existed  mainly  for  public  uses. 
There  was  probably  no  domestic  life,  no  country 
life,  no  individual  enterprises,  as  we  know  them. 
The  individual  was  subordinated.  Their  greatest 
men  were  banished  or  poisoned  from  a  sort  of  jeal 
ousy  of  the  state.  The  state  could  not  endure  such 
rivals.  Their  games,  their  pastimes,  were  national 
institutions.  Public  sentiment  on  all  matters  was 
clear  and  strong.  There  was  a  common  standard, 
an  unwritten  law  of  taste,  to  which  poets,  artists, 
orators  appealed.  Not  till  Athens  began  to  decay 
did  great  men  appear,  who,  like  Socrates,  had  no 
influence  in  the  state.  This  spirit  of  institutional- 
ism  is  strong  in  Matthew  Arnold;  and  it  is  not 
merely  an  idea  which  he  has  picked  up  from  the 
Greek,  but  is  the  inevitable  outcropping  of  his  in 
born  Hellenism.  This  alone  places  him  in  opposi 
tion  to  his  countrymen,  who  are  suspicious  of  the 
state  and  of  state  action,  and  who  give  full  swing  to 
the  spirit  of  individualism.  It  even  places  him  in 
hostility  to  Protestantism,  or  to  the  spirit  which  be 
gat  it,  to  say  nothing  of  the  dissenting  churches.  It 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         107 

makes  him  indifferent  to  the  element  of  personalism, 
the  flavor  of  character,  the  quality  of  unique  indi- 
"vidual  genius,  wherever  found  in  art,  literature,  or 
religion.  It  is  one  secret  of  his  preference  of  the 
establishment  over  the  dissenting  churches.  The 
dissenter  stands  for  personal  religion,  religion  as  a 
private  and  individual  experience:  the  established 
churches  stand  for  institutional  religion,  or  religion  as 
a  public  and  organized  system  of  worship ;  and  when 
the  issue  is  between  the  two,  Arnold  will  always  be 
found  on  the  side  of  institutionalism.  He  always 
takes  up  for  the  state  against  the  individual,  for 
public  and  established  forms  against  private  and  per 
sonal  dissent  and  caprice.  "  It  was  by  no  means  in 
accordance  with  the  nature  of  the  Hellenes,"  says 
Dr.  Curtius,  "mentally  to  separate  and  view  in  the 
light  of  contrast  such  institutions  as  the  state  and 
religion,  which  in  reality  everywhere  most  inti 
mately  pervaded  one  another." 

What  Arnold  found  to  approve  in  this  country 
was  our  institutions,  our  success  in  solving  the  social 
and  political  problems,  and  what  he  found  to  criti 
cise  was  our  excessive  individualism,  our  self-glorifi 
cation,  the  bad  manners  of  our  newspapers,  and,  in 
general,  the  crude  state  of  our  civilization. 

One  would  expect  Arnold  to  prefer  the  religion 
of  the  Old  Testament  to  that  of  the  New,  for,  as  he 
himself  says:  "The  leaning,  there,  is  to  make  re 
ligion  social  rather  than  personal,  an  affair  of  out 
ward  duties  rather  than  of  inward  dispositions ;  "  and, 
to  a  disinterested  observer,  this  is  very  much  like 


108  INDOOR    STUDIES 

what  the  religion  of  the  Anglican  Church  appears 
to  be. 

Arnold  always  distrusts  the  individual;  he  sees 
in  him  mainly  a  bundle  of  whims  and  caprices. 
The  individual  is  one-sided,  fantastical,  headstrong, 
narrow.  He  distrusts  all  individual  enterprises  in 
the  way  of  schools,  colleges,  churches,  charities; 
and,  like  his  teacher,  Aristotle,  pleads  for  state  ac 
tion  in  all  these  matters.  "Culture,"  he  says  (and 
by  culture  he  means  Hellenism),  "will  not  let  us 
rivet  our  attention  upon  any  one  man  and  his  do 
ings;"  it  directs  our  attention  rather  to  the  "natu 
ral  current  there  is  in  human  affairs ; "  and  assigns 
"  to  systems  and  to  system-makers  a  smaller  share  in 
the  bent  of  human  destiny  than  their  friends  like. " 

"I  remember,  when  I  was  under  the  influence  of 
a  mind  to  which  I  feel  the  greatest  obligations,  the 
mind  of  a  man  who  was  the  very  incarnation  of 
sanity  and  clear  sense,  a  man  the  most  considerable, 
it  seems  to  me,  whom  America  has  yet  produced, 
—  Benjamin  Franklin,  —  I  remember  the  relief  with 
which,  after  long  feeling  the  sway  of  Franklin's  im 
perturbable  common-sense,  I  came  upon  a  project  of 
his  for  a  new  version  of  the  Book  of  Job,  to  replace 
the  old  version,  the  style  of  which,  says  Franklin, 
has  become  obsolete,  and  hence  less  agreeable.  'I 
give, '  he  continues,  '  a  few  verses,  which  may  serve 
as  a  sample  of  the  kind  of  version  I  would  recom 
mend.  ' l  We  all  recollect  the  famous  verse  in  our 

1  It  turns  out  that  this  was  only  a  joke  of  Franklin's,  and  it  ia 
Very  curious  that  Arnold  did  not  see  it. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         109 

translation :  *  Then  Satan  answered  the  Lord,  and 
said,  Doth  Job  fear  God  for  nought  1 '  Franklin 
makes  this:  *  Does  your  Majesty  imagine  that  Job's 
good  conduct  is  the  effect  of  mere  personal  attach 
ment  and  affection  ?  '  I  well  remember  how,  when 
first  I  read  that,  I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief, 
and  said  to  myself:  'After  all,  there  is  a  stretch  of 
humanity  beyond  Franklin's  victorious  good  sense!  ' 
So,  after  hearing  Bentham  cried  loudly  up  as  the 
renovator  of  modern  society,  and  Bentham's  mind 
and  ideas  proposed  as  the  rulers  of  our  future,  I 
open  the  '  Deontology. '  There  I  read :  '  While 
Xenophon  was  writing  his  history  and  Euclid  teach 
ing  geometry,  Socrates  and  Plato  were  talking  non 
sense  under  pretense  of  talking  wisdom  and  moral 
ity.  This  morality  of  theirs  consisted  in  words; 
this  wisdom  of  theirs  was  the  denial  of  matters 
known  to  every  man's  experience.'  From  the  mo 
ment  of  reading  that,  I  am  delivered  from  the  bond 
age  of  Bentham !  the  fanaticism  of  his  adherents  can 
touch  me  no  longer.  I  feel  the  inadequacy  of  his 
mind  and  ideas  for  supplying  the  rule  of  human 
society,  for  perfection." 

The  modern  movement  seems  to  me  peculiarly  a 
movement  of  individualism,  a  movement  favoring 
the  greater  freedom  and  growth  of  the  individual, 
as  opposed  to  outward  authority  and  its  lodgment  in 
institutions.  It  is  this  movement  which  has  given 
a  distinctive  character  to  the  literature  of  our  cen 
tury,  a  movement  in  letters  which  Goethe  did  more 
to  forward  than  any  other  man,  —  Goethe,  who  said 


110  INDOOR    STUDIES 

that  in  art  and  poetry  personal  genius  is  everything, 
and  that  "  in  the  great  work  the  great  person  is  al 
ways  present  as  the  great  factor."  Arnold  seems 
not  to  share  this  feeling;  he  does  not  belong  to  this 
movement.  His  books  give  currency  to  another 
order  of  ideas.  He  subordinates  the  individual,  and 
lays  the  emphasis  on  culture  and  the  claims  of  the 
higher  standards.  He  says  the  individual  has  no 
natural  rights,  but  only  duties.  We  never  find  him 
insisting  upon  originality,  self-reliance,  character,  in 
dependence,  but,  quite  the  contrary,  on  conformity 
and  obedience.  He  says  that  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trouble  of  all  the  English  people  lies  the  notion  of 
its  being  the  prime  right  and  happiness  for  each  of 
us  to  affirm  himself  and  to  be  doing  as  he  likes. 
One  of  his  earliest  and  most  effective  essays  was  to 
show  the  value  of  academies  of  a  central  and  au 
thoritative  standard  of  taste  to  a  national  literature ; 
and  in  all  his  subsequent  writings  the  academic  note 
has  been  struck  and  adhered  to.  With  him  right, 
reason,  and  the  authority  of  the  state  are  one.  "In 
our  eyes,"  he  says,  "the  very  framework  and  exte 
rior  order  of  the  state,  whoever  may  administer  the 
state,  is  sacred."  "Every  one  of  us,"  he  again 
says,  "has  the  idea  of  country,  as  a  sentiment; 
hardly  any  one  of  us  has  the  idea  of  the  state  as  a 
working  power.  And  why  ?  Because  we  habitually 
live  in  our  ordinary  selves,  which  do  not  carry  us 
beyond  the  ideas  and  wishes  of  the  class  to  which 
we  happen  to  belong."  Which  is  but  saying  be 
cause  we  are  wrapped  so  closely  about  by  our  indi- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         ill 

vidualism.  His  remedy  for  the  democratic  tenden 
cies  of  the  times,  tendencies  he  does  not  regret,  is 
an  increase  of  the  dignity  and  authority  of  the  state. 
The  danger  of  English  democracy  is,  he  says,  "  that 
it  will  have  far  too  much  its  own  way,  and  be  left 
far  too  much  to  itself."  He  adds,  with  great  force 
and  justness,  that  "nations  are  not  truly  great  solely 
because  the  individuals  composing  them  are  numer 
ous,  free,  and  active,  but  they  are  great  when  these 
numbers,  this  freedom,  and  this  activity  are  em 
ployed  in  the  service  of  an  ideal  higher  than  that  of 
an  ordinary  man  taken  by  himself."  Or,  as  Aris 
totle  says,  these  things  must  be  in  "obedience  to 
some  intelligent  principle,  and  some  right  regula 
tion,  which  has  the  power  of  enforcing  its  de 
crees.  " 

When  the  licensed  victualers  or  the  commercial 
travelers  propose  to  make  a  school  for  their  children, 
Arnold  is  unsparing  in  his  ridicule.  He  says  that 
to  bring  children  up  "in  a  kind  of  odor  of  licensed 
victualism  or  of  bagmanism  is  not  a  wise  training  to 
give  to  children."  The  heads  and  representatives 
of  the  nation  should  teach  them  better,  but  they  do 
nothing  of  the  kind;  on  the  contrary  they  extol  the 
energy  and  self-reliance  of  the  licensed  victualers  or 
commercial  travelers,  and  predict  full  success  for 
their  schools.  John  Bull  is  suspicious  of  centraliza 
tion,  bureaucracy,  state  authority,  which  carry  things 
with  such  a  high  hand  on  the  Continent.  Anything 
that  threatens,  or  seems  to  threaten,  his  individual 
liberty,  he  stands  clear  of.  The  sense  of  the  na- 


112  INDOOR    STUDIES 

tion  spoke  in  the  words  lately  uttered  through  the 
"  Times  "  by  Sir  Auberon  Herbert.  He  says :  — 

"  All  great  state  systems  stupefy ;  you  cannot  make 
the  state  a  parent  without  the  logical  consequence 
of  making  the  people  children.  Official  regulation 
and  free  mental  perception  of  what  is  right  and  wise 
do  not  and  cannot  coexist.  I  see  no  possible  way 
in  which  you  can  reconcile  these  great  state  services 
and  the  conditions  under  which  men  have  to  make 
true  progress  in  themselves." 

But  to  preach  such  notions  in  England,  Arnold 
would  say,  is  like  carrying  coals  to  Newcastle.  They 
would  be  of  more  service  in  France,  where  state 
action  is  excessive.  In  England  the  dangers  are 
the  other  way. 

"  Our  dangers  are  in  exaggerating  the  blessings  of 
self-will  and  of  self-assertion;  in  not  being  ready 
enough  to  sink  our  imperfectly  formed  self-will  in 
view  of  a  large  general  result." 

There  seems  to  be  nothing  in  Hellenism  that  sug 
gests  Catholicism,  and  yet  evidently  it  is  Arnold's 
classical  feeling  for  institutions  that  gives  him  his 
marked  Catholic  bias.  The  Catholic  Church  is  a 
great  institution,  —  the  greatest  and  oldest  in  the 
world.  It  makes  and  always  has  made  short  work 
of  the  individual.  It  is  cold,  stately,  impersonal. 
Says  Emerson :  — 

"  In  the  long  time  it  has  blended  with  everything 
in  heaven  above  and  the  earth  beneath.  It  moves 
through  a  zodiac  of  feasts  and  fasts,  names  every  day 
of  the  year,  every  town  and  market  and  headland  and 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         113 

monument,  and  has  coupled  itself  with  the  almanac, 
that  no  court  can  be  held,  no  field  plowed,  no  horse 
'shod,  without  some  leave  from  the  church." 

It  appeals  to  Arnold  by  reason  of  these  things, 
and  it  appeals  to  him  by  reason  of  its  great  names, 
its  poets,  artists,  statesmen,  preachers,  scholars; 
its  imposing  ritual,  its  splendid  architecture,  its  cul 
ture.  It  has  been  the  conserver  of  letters.  For 
centuries  the  priests  were  the  only  scholars,  and  its 
ceremonial  is  a  kind  of  petrified  literature.  Ar 
nold  clearly  speaks  for  himself,  or  from  his  own  bias, 
when  he  says  that  "the  man  of  imagination,  nay, 
and  the  philosopher,  too,  in  spite  of  her  propensity 
to  burn  him,  will  always  have  a  weakness  for  the 
Catholic  Church;  "  "it  is  because  of  the  rich  treas 
ures  of  human  life  which  have  been  stored  within 
her  pale."  Indeed,  there  is  a  distinct  flavor  of  Ca 
tholicism  about  nearly  all  of  Matthew  Arnold's  writ 
ings.  One  cannot  always  put  his  finger  on  it:  it  is 
in  the  air,  it  is  in  that  cool,  haughty  impersonalism, 
that  ex  cathedra  tone,  that  contempt  for  dissenters, 
that  genius  for  form,  that  spirit  of  organization. 
His  mental  tone  and  temper  ally  him  to  Cardinal 
Newman,  who  seems  to  have  exerted  a  marked  in 
fluence  upon  him,  and  -who  is  still,  he  says,  a  great 
name  to  the  imagination.  Yet  he  says  Newman 
"has  adopted,  for  the  doubts  and  difficulties  which 
beset  men's  minds  to-day,  a  solution,  which,  to 
speak  frankly,  is  impossible."  What,  therefore,  re 
pels  Arnold  in  Catholicism,  and  keeps  him  without 
its  fold,  is  its  "  ultramontanism,  sacerdotalism,  and 


114  INDOOR    STUDIES 

superstition."  Its  cast-iron  dogmas  and  its  bigotry 
are  too  much  for  his  Hellenic  spirit;  but  no  more 
so  than  are  the  dogmas  and  bigotry  of  the  Protestant 
churches.  It  is  clear  enough  that  he  would  sooner 
be  a  Catholic  than  a  Presbyterian  or  a  Methodist. 

The  real  superiority  of  the  Catholic  Church,  he 
says,  is  in  "its  charm  for  the  imagination, — its 
poetry.  I  persist  in  thinking  that  Catholicism  has, 
from  this  superiority,  a  great  future  before  it;  that 
it  will  endure  while  all  the  Protestant  sects  (in 
which  I  do  not  include  the  Church  of  England)  dis 
solve  and  perish.  I  persist  in  thinking  that  the 
prevailing  form  for  the  Christianity  of  the  future 
will  be  the  form  of  Catholicism,  but  a  Catholicism 
purged,  opening  itself  to  the  light  and  air,  having 
the  consciousness  of  its  own  poetry,  freed  from  its 
sacerdotal  despotism,  and  freed  from  its  pseudo- 
scientific  apparatus  of  superannuated  dogma.  Its 
forms  will  be  retained,  as  symbolizing  with  the  force 
and  charm  of  poetry  a  few  cardinal  facts  and  ideas 
simple  indeed,  but  indispensable  and  inexhaustible, 
and  on  which  our  race  could  lay  hold  only  by  mate 
rializing  them." 

All  this  may  well  be  questioned.  To  the  disinter 
ested  observer,  the  ritual  and  the  imposing  ceremo 
nial  of  the  Catholic  Church  have  about  them  little 
of  the  character  of  true  poetry  or  of  true  beauty. 
These  things  appeal  to  a  low  order  of  imagination  and 
mentality,  and  are  one  secret  of  the  church's  influ 
ence  over  the  vulgar  masses.  A  man  of  true  taste  is 
no  more  touched  by  them  than  by  any  rite  of  pagan 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM          115 

faiths.  True,  the  great  cathedrals  are  a  part  of 
the  ceremonial  of  the  church,  and  here  the  height 
of  true  poetry  is  reached,  and  the  imagination  is 
aroused,  as  it  is  also  by  her  great  names,  her  poets, 
artists,  scholars,  preachers,  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
But  the  secret  of  all  these  things  has  now  passed 
from  the  Catholic  Church.  She  is  as  impotent  in 
art  and  architecture,  in  literature  and  in  the  pul 
pit,  as  are  the  Protestant  churches.  Raphaels,  and 
Dantes,  and  Fenelons,  and  Pascals,  and  Bossuets  no 
longer  appear  within  her  pale.  Should  we  not 
rather  look  for  the  real  superiority  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  as  an  active  force  in  the  world,  to  its  au 
thority,  its  vast  overshadowing  power  as  an  institu 
tion?  In  this  respect  it  is  nearly  perfect,  and  does 
indeed  touch  the  imagination.  It  is  as  thorough  as 
nature,  as  searching  as  fate.  It  lays  its  hands  upon 
every  force  of  human  life.  It  is  wonderfully  adapted 
to  the  weakness,  the  ignorance,  and  the  helplessness 
of  mankind.  It  establishes  the  ways,  it  prescribes 
your  belief,  it  settles  doubts  and  misgivings.  Dr. 
Johnson  said  he  could  easily  see  how  many  good  but 
timid  and  credulous  persons  "might  be  glad  to  be  of 
a  church  where  there  are  so  many  helps  to  get  to 
heaven ; "  and  he  adds  of  himself,  "  I  would  be  a 
Papist  if  I  could;  I  have  fear  enough,  but  an  obsti 
nate  rationality  prevents  me."  It  is,  indeed,  easy 
to  get  to  heaven  by  way  of  the  Catholic  Church. 

It  is  as  complete  as  Noah's  Ark,  in  which  such  a 
motley  crew  found  lodgmei\t.  The  inmates  are 
housed  from  the  winds,  the  waves,  the  storms. 


116  INDOOR   STUDIES 

Protestantism  has  taken  to  the  open  boats,  while 
some  of  the  sects  have  hardly  a  plank  beneath  them. 
Yes,  if  you  are  no  swimmer,  and  must  needs  make 
the  voyage  with  the  least  possible  trouble  and  ex 
posure,  embark  in  the  great  mother  church.  You 
have  little  more  to  do  than  a  passenger  on  board  of 
one  of  the  Altantic  steamers.  Herein  we  strike  the 
secret  of  the  power  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  the 
secret  of  its  hopes  for  the  future.  After  one  has 
passed  through  a  certain  course  of  experience  and 
development,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  men  tire  of  the 
open  boat  or  single  plank  mode  of  navigation,  and 
desire  the  repose  and  security  of  a  vessel  that  has 
withstood  the  elements  so  long.  Then  people  left  to 
themselves  do  make  such  wretched  work  with  the 
Bible,  do  belittle  and  vulgarize  it  so !  They  take  a 
text  here  and  a  text  there,  and  brood  over  them, 
and  make  a  great  noise  over  a  nest  full  of  addled 
eggs;  for  a  text,  wrenched  from  its  context  and  read 
in  any  spirit  but  that  in  which  it.  was  written  be 
comes  as  an  addled  egg.  Mormonism  is  one  of  the 
legitimate  fruits  of  Protestantism.  The  Catholic 
Church  puts  an  end  to  all  this;  there  are  no  more 
noisy  sects  and  isms;  the  Bible  is  authoritatively 
interpreted.  This  alone  commends  her  to  men  of 
taste. 

Arnold's  Hellenism  is  the  source  of  both  his 
weakness  and  his  strength;  his  strength,  because  it 
gives  him  a  principle  that  cannot  be  impeached.  In 
all  matters  of  taste  and  culture  the  Greek  standards 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD'S   CRITICISM  117 

are  the  last  and  highest  court  of  appeal.  In  no 
other  race  and  time  has  life  been  so  rounded  and 
full,  and  invested  with  the  same  charm.  "They 
were  freer  than  other  mortal  races,"  says  Professor 
Curtius,  "from  all  that  hinders  and  oppresses  the 
motions  of  the  mind." 

It  is  the  source  of  his  weakness,  or  ineffectual- 
ness,  because  he  has  to  do  with  an  unclassical  age 
and  unclassical  people.  It  is  interesting  and  salu 
tary  to  have  the  Greek  standards  applied  to  modern 
politics  and  religion,  and  to  the  modern  man,  but 
the  application  makes  little  or  no  impression  save 
on  the  literary  classes.  Well  might  Arnold  say, 
in  his  speech  at  the  Authors'  Club  in  New  York, 
that  only  the  literary  class  had  understood  and  sus 
tained  him.  The  other  classes  have  simply  been  ir 
ritated  or  bewildered  by  him.  His  tests  do  not  ap 
peal  to  them.  The  standards  which  the  philosopher, 
or  the  political  economist,  or  the  religious  teacher 
brings,  impress  them  more. 

The  Greek  flexibility  of  intellect  cannot  be  too 
much  admired,  but  the  Greek  flexibility  of  charac 
ter  and  conscience  is  quite  another  thing.  Of  the 
ancient  Hellenes  it  may  with  truth  be  said  that  they 
were  the  "wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind." 
Such  fickleness,  treachery,  duplicity,  were  perhaps 
never  before  wedded  to  such  aesthetic  rectitude  and 
wholeness.  They  would  bribe  their  very  gods. 
Such  a  type  of  character  can  never  take  deep  hold 
of  the  British  mind. 

When  Arnold,  reciting  the  episode  of  Wragg,  tells 


118  INDOOR    STUDIES 

his  countrymen  that  "by  the  Ilissus  there  was 
no  Wragg,  poor  thing,"  will  his  countrymen  much 
concern  themselves  whether  there  was  or  not? 
When  the  burden  of  his  indictment  of  the  English 
Liberals  is  that  they  have  worked  only  for  political 
expansion,  and  have  done  little  or  nothing  for  the 
need  of  beauty,  the  need  of  social  life  and  man 
ners,  and  the  need  of  intellect  and  knowledge,  will 
the  English  Liberals  feel  convicted  by  the  charge? 
When  he  says  of  the  Pilgrim  fathers  that  Shake 
speare  and  Virgil  would  have  found  their  company 
intolerable,  is  Puritanism  discredited  in  the  eye  of 
English  Puritans?  Indeed,  literary  standards,  ap 
plied  to  politics  or  religion,  are  apt  to  be  ineffec 
tual  with  all  except  a  very  limited  circle  of  artistic 
spirits. 

Whether  it  be  a  matter  for  regret  or  for  congrat 
ulation,  there  can  be  little  doubt  thatnnan  and  all. 
his  faculties  are  becoming  more  and  more  special 
ized,  more  and  more  differentiated;  the  quality  of 
unique  individual  genius  is  more  and  more  valued, 
so  that  we  are  wandering  farther  and  farther  from 
the  unity,  the  simplicity,  and  the  repose  of  the  an 
tique  world. 

This  fact  may  afford  the  best  of  reasons  for  the 
appearance  of  such  a  man  as  Arnold,  who  opposes 
so  squarely  and  fairly  this  tendency,  and  who  draws 
such  fresh  courage  and  strength  from  the  classic 
standards.  But  it  accounts  in  a  measure  for  the  gen 
eral  expression  of  distaste  with  which  his  teachings 
have  been  received.  Still,  he  has  shown  us  very 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM          119 

clearly  how  British  civilization  looks  to  Hellenic 
eyes,  where  it  needs  pruning  and  where  it  needs' 
'strengthening;  and  he  has  doubtless  set  going  cur 
rents  of  ideas  that  must  eventually  tell  deeply  upon 
the  minds  of  his  countrymen. 

It  is  undoubtedly  as  a  critic  of  literature  that  Ar 
nold  is  destined  to  leave  his  deepest  mark.  In  this 
field  the  classic  purity  and  simplicity  of  his  mind, 
its  extraordinary  clearness,  steadiness,  and  vitality, 
are  the  qualities  most  prized.  His  power  as  a  critic 
is  undoubtedly  his  power  of  definition  and  classi 
fication,  a  gift  he  has  which  allies  him  with  the 
great  naturalists  and  classifiers.  Probably  no  other 
English  critic  has  thrown  into  literature  so  many 
phrases  and  definitions  that  are  likely  to  become  a 
permanent  addition  to  the  armory  of  criticism  as  has 
Arnold.  Directness  and  definiteness  are  as  proper 
and  as  easy  to  him  as  to  a  Greek  architect.  He  is 
the  least  bewildering  of  writers.  With  what  ad 
mirable  skill  he  brings  out  his  point  on  all  occasions ! 
Things  fall  away  from  it  till  it  stands  out  like  a  tree 
in  a  field,  which  we  see  all  around.  His  genius  for 
definition  and  analysis  finds  full  scope  in  his  works 
on  "Celtic  Literature,"  wherein  are  combined  the 
strictness  of  scientific  analysis  with  the  finest  literary 
charm.  The  lectures,  too,  on  "  Translating  Homer, " 
seem  as  conclusive  as  a  scientific  demonstration. 

A  good  sample  of  his  power  to  pluck  out  the  heart 
of  the  secret  of  a  man's  influence  may  be  found  in 
his  essay  on  Wordsworth. 

"Wordsworth's    poetry  is   great  because  of    the 


120  INDOOR    STUDIES 

extraordinary  power  with  which  Wordsworth  feels 
the  joy  offered  to  us  in  nature,  the  joy  offered  to  us 
in  simple  elementary  affections  and  duties,  and  be 
cause  of  the  extraordinary  power  with  which,  in  case 
after  case,  he  shows  us  this  joy  and  renders  it  so  as 
to  make  us  share  it." 

Arnold  has  been  compared  to  Sainte-Beuve,  but 
the  resemblance  is  not  very  striking.  Arnold  has 
not  the  vivacity  of  mind  of  the  Frenchman,  nor  the 
same  power  to  efface  himself  and  his  opinions.  It 
is  not  an  easy  matter  for  an  Englishman  to  efface 
himself  on  any  occasion.  Sainte-Beuve  is  the  better 
instrument,  but  Arnold  is  the  greater  force. 

In  power  of  concentration  and  in  power  of  defini 
tion,  the  English  critic  surpasses  his  French  master. 
Sainte-Beuve 's  power  is  a  power  of  interpretation; 
he  can  adjust  himself  more  closely  and  happily  to  a 
wide  diversity  of  minds  than  can  Arnold.  He  was 
not  a  critic  of  opinions,  doctrines,  teachings,  but  an 
interpreter  of  genius  in  all  its  forms.  No  matter 
what  a  man  taught,  so  that  he  taught  it  well.  He 
has  the  same  pleasure  with  Pope  or  Franklin  as  with 
Pascal  or  Massillon.  "One  loves,  one  adopts  with 
pleasure,"  he  says,  "every  kind  of  genius,  every 
new  talent."  His  mind  flows  around  and  around 
his  subject,  and  envelops  it  on  all  sides,  and  renders 
the  clearest  and  fullest  image  of  it.  He  is  a  pure, 
disembodied  critical  spirit,  indulging  itself  to  the 
utmost  in  the  mere  pleasure  of  criticising,  of  inter 
preting;  taking  possession  of  every  form  or  kind  of 
genius  with  like  ease  and  enjoyment,  blending  itself 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM          121 

with  it  and  drawing  out  its  secret  by  a  kind  of  lit 
erary  clairvoyance. 

Arnold  has  not,  in  the  same  measure,  this  kind  of 
power.  He  is  less  sympathetic  and  more  analytical 
in  his  method,  and  more  given  to  definition  and  to 
final  judgments.  He  is  also  fuller  of  the  spirit  of 
reproof  and  discipline  than  the  Frenchman.  The 
force  of  nature  and  character  are  less  with  him,  and 
the  authority  of  the  rules  and  standards  more.  One 
would  rather  submit  a  bold  and  original  genius  to 
the  judgment  of  the  Frenchman;  he  would  see  more 
reason  for  justifying  it  upon  its  own  grounds,  for 
allowing  it  to  be  a  law  unto  itself;  but  for  a  com 
parative  judgment,  to  know  where  your  original 
genius  departs  from  the  highest  standards,  wherein 
he  transgresses  the  law,  etc.,  one  would  go  to  Ar 
nold. 

A  recent  English  reviewer  says  that  there  are  but 
two  English  authors  of  the  present  day  whose  works 
are  preeminent  for  quality  of  style,  namely,  John 
Morley  and  Cardinal  Newman.  But  one  would  say 
that  the  man  of  all  others  among  recent  English 
writers  who  had  in  a  preeminent  degree  the  gift  of 
what  we  call  style  —  that  quality  in  literature  which 
is  like  the  sheen  of  a  bird's  plumage  —  was  Matthew 
Arnold.  That  Morley  has  this  quality  is  by  no 
means  so  certain.  Morley  is  a  vigorous,  brilliant, 
versatile  writer,  but  his  quality  is  not  distinctively 
literary,  and  his  sentences  do  not  have  a  power  and 
a  charm  by  virtue  of  their  very  texture  and  sequence 
alone.  Few  writers,  of  any  time  or  land,  have  had 


122  INDOOR   STUDIES 

the  unity,  transparency,  centrality  of  Arnold's  mind, 
—  the  piece  or  discourse  is  so  well  cast,  it  is  so  homo 
geneous,  it  makes  such  a  clear  and  distinct  im 
pression.  Morley's  vocabulary  is  the  more  copious; 
more  matters  are  touched  upon  in  any  given  space; 
he  is  more  fruitful  of  ideas  and  suggestions;  his 
writings  may  have  a  greater  political,  or  religious, 
or  scientific  value  than  Arnold's.  But  in  pure  lit 
erary  value  they,  in  my  opinion,  fall  far  below. 
Arnold's  work  is  like  cut  glass;  it  is  not  merely 
clear,  it  has  a  distinction,  a  prestige,  which  belongs  to 
it  by  reason  of  its  delicate  individuality  of  style. 
The  writings  of  Cardinal  Newman  have  much  of  the 
same  quality,  —  the  utmost  lucidity  combined  with  a 
fresh,  distinct  literary  flavor.  They  are  pervaded 
by  a  sweeter,  more  winsome  spirit  than  Arnold's; 
there  is  none  of  the  scorn,  contemptuousness,  and 
superciliousness  in  them  that  have  given  so  much 
offense  in  Arnold ;  and  while  his  style  is  not  so  crisp 
as  the  latter 's,  it  is  perhaps  more  marvelously  flex 
ible  and  magnetic. 

Arnold  is,  above  all  things,  integral  and  consec 
utive.  He  seems  to  have  no  isolated  thoughts,  no 
fragments,  nothing  that  begins  and  ends  in  a  mere 
intellectual  concretion;  his  thoughts  are  all  in  the 
piece  and  have  reference  to  his  work  as  a  whole ; 
they  are  entirely  subordinated  to  plan,  to  structure, 
to  total  results.  He  values  them,  not  as  ends,  but 
as  means.  In  other  words,  we  do  not  come  upon 
those  passages  in  his  works  that  are  like  isolated 
pools  of  deep  and  beautiful  meaning,  and  which 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM          123 

make  the  value  to  us  of  writers  like  Landor,  for  in 
stance,  but  we  everywhere  strike  continuous  currents 
'of  ideas  that  set  definitely  to  certain  conclusions; 
always  clear  and  limpid  currents,  and  now  and  then 
deep,  strong,  and  beautiful  currents.  And,  after  all, 
water  was  made  to  flow  and  not  to  stand,  and  those 
are  the  most  vital  and  influential  minds  whose  ideas 
are  working  ideas,  and  lay  hold  of  real  problems. 

Certainly  a  man's  power  to  put  himself  in  com 
munication  with  live  questions,  and  to  take  vital 
hold  of  the  spiritual  and  intellectual  life  of  his  age, 
should  enter  into  our  estimate  of  him.  We  shall  ask 
of  a  writer  who  lays  claim  to  high  rank,  not  merely 
has  he  great  thoughts,  but  what  does  he  do  with 
his  great  thoughts  ?  Is  he  superior  to  them  ?  Can 
he  use  them  ?  Can  he  bring  them  to  bear  ?  Can 
he  wield  them  to  clear  up  some  obscurity  or  bridge 
over  some  difficulty  for  us,  or  does  he  sit  down  amid 
them  and  admire  them  ?  A  man  who  wields  a  great 
capital  is  above  him  who  merely  hoards  it  and  keeps 
it.  Let  me  refer  to  Landor  again  in  this  connection, 
because,  in  such  a  discussion,  one  wants,  as  they  say 
in  croquet,  a  ball  to  play  on,  and  because  Landor' s 
works  have  lately  been  in  my  hands,  and  I  have 
noted  in  them  a  certain  remoteness  and  ineffectual- 
ness  which  contrast  them  well  with  Arnold's.  Lan- 
dor's  sympathies  were  mainly  outside  his  country 
and  times,  and  his  writings  affect  me  like  capital 
invested  in  jewels  and  precious  stones,  rather  than 
employed  in  any  great  and  worthy  enterprise.  One 
turns  over  his  beautiful  sentences  with  a  certain 


124  INDOOR   STUDIES 

admiration  and  enjoyment,  but  his  ideas  do  not 
fasten  upon  one,  and  ferment  and  grow  in  his  mind, 
and  influence  his  judgments  and  feelings.  It  is  not 
a  question  of  abstraction  or  of  disinterestedness, 
but  of  seriousness  of  purpose.  Emerson  is  more 
abstract,  more  given  up  to  ideal  and  transcendental 
valuations,  than  Landor;  but  Emerson  is  a  power, 
because  he  partakes  of  a  great  spiritual  and  intellec 
tual  movement  of  his  times;  he  is  unequivocally  of 
to-day  and  of  New  England.  So  with  Arnold,  he 
is  unequivocally  of  to-day;  he  is  unequivocally  an 
Englishman,  but  an  Englishman  thoroughly  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  Greek  art  and  culture.  The  sur 
prise  in  reading  Arnold  is  never  the  novelty  of  his 
thought  or  expression,  or  the  force  with  which  his 
ideas  are  projected,  but  in  the  clearness  and  nearness 
of  the  point  of  view,  and  the  steadiness  and  consist 
ency  with  which  the  point  of  view  is  maintained. 
He  is  as  free  from  the  diseases  of  subtlety  and  over- 
refinement  of  thought  or  expression,  and  from  any 
thing  exaggerated  or  fanciful,  as  any  of  the  antique 
authors.  His  distinguishing  trait  is  a  kind  of  finer 
common-sense.  One  remembers  his  acknowledgment 
of  his  indebtedness  to  the  sanity  and  clear  sense  of 
Franklin.  It  is  here  the  two  minds  meet;  the  lead 
ing  trait  of  each  is  this  same  sanity  and  clear  sense, 
this  reliance  upon  the  simple  palpable  reason. 

Arnold's  reliance  upon  the  near  and  obvious  rea 
son,  and  his  distrust  of  metaphysical  subtleties  and 
curious  refinements,  are  so  constant  that  he  has  been 
accused  of  parading  the  commonplace.  But  the 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         125 

commonplace,  when  used  with  uncommon  cleverness 
and  aptness,  is  always  the  most  telling.  He  thinks 
the  great  weakness  of  Christianity  at  the  present 
time  is  its  reliance,  or  pretended  reliance,  upon  the 
preternatural,  and  the  whole  burden  of  his  own  effort 
in  this  field  is  to  show  its  basis  upon  common- sense, 
upon  a  universal  need  and  want  of  mankind.  For 
ingenious,  for  abstruse  reasons  Arnold  has  no  taste 
at  all,  either  in  religion,  in  literature,  or  in  politics, 
and  the  mass  of  readers  will  sympathize  with  him. 
"At  the  mention  of  that  name  metaphysics,"  he 
says,  "lo,  essence,  existence,  substance,  finite  and 
infinite,  cause  and  succession,  something  and  nothing, 
begin  to  weave  their  eternal  dance  before  us,  with 
the  confused  murmur  of  their  combinations  filling 
all  the  region  governed  by  her  who,  far  more  in 
disputably  than  her  late-born  rival,  political  econ 
omy,  has  earned  the  title  of  the  Dismal  Science." 

The  dangers  of  such  steadiness  and  literary  con 
servatism  as  Arnold's  are  the  humdrum  and  the 
commonplace;  but  he  is  saved  from  these  by  his 
poetic  sensibility.  How  homogeneous  his  page  is, 
like  air  or  water!  There  is  little  color,  little  vari 
ety,  but  there  is  an  interior  harmony  and  fitness, 
that  are  like  good  digestion  or  good  health.  Viva 
city  of  mind  he  is  not  remarkable  for,  but  in  single 
ness  and  continuity  he  is  extraordinary.  His  seri 
ousness  of  purpose  seldom  permits  him  to  indulge  in 
wit;  humor  is  a  more  constant  quality  with  him. 
But  never  is  there  wit  for  wit's  sake,  nor  humor  for 
humor's  sake;  they  are  entirely  in  the  service  of  the 


126  INDOOR   STUDIES 

main  argument.  The  wit  is  usually  a  thrust,  as 
when  he  says  of  the  Nonconformist  that  he  "has 
worshiped  his  fetich  of  separatism  so  long  that  he  is 
likely  to  wish  to  remain,  like  Ephraim,  'a  wild  ass 
alone  by  himself. '  '  The  book  in  which  he  uses  the 
weapons  of  wit  and  humor  the  most  constantly  he 
calls,  with  refined  sarcasm,  "Friendship's  Garland,'7 

—  a  garland  made  up  mainly  of  nettles.      Like  all 
of  his  books,  it  is  aimed  at  the  British  Philistine, 
but  it  is  less  Socratic  than  the  other  books  and  con 
tains  more  of  Dean  Swift.    Arnold  is  always  a  mas 
ter  of  the  artful  Socratic  method,  but  this  book  has, 
in  addition,  a  playful  humor  and  a  nettle-like  irony 

—  an  itch  which  ends  in  a  burn  —  that  are  more 
modern.      What  a  garland  he  drops  by  the  hand  of 
his  Prussian  friend  Arminius  upon  the  brow  of  Hep- 
worth  Dixon  in  characterizing  his  style  as  "  Middle- 
class  Macaulayese : " — 

" '  I  call  it  Macaulayese, '  says  the  pedant,  '  because 
it  has  the  same  internal  and  external  characteristics 
as  Macaulay's  style;  the  external  characteristic  being 
a  hard  metallic  movement  with  nothing  of  the  soft 
play  of  life,  and  the  internal  characteristic  being  a 
perpetual  semblance  of  hitting  the  right  nail  on  the 
head  without  the  reality.  And  I  call  it  middle- 
class  Macaulayese  because  it  has  these  faults  without 
the  compensation  of  great  studies,  and  of  conver 
sance  with  great  affairs,  by  which  Macaulay  partly 
redeemed  them. '  " 

By  the  hand  of  another  character  he  crowns  Mr. 
Sala  thus :  — 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD'S  CRITICISM         127 

"  But  his  career  and  genius  have  given  him  some 
how  the  secret  of  a  literary  mixture  novel  and 
fascinating  in  the  last  degree:  he  blends  the  airy 
epicureanism  of  the  salons  of  Augustus  with  the 
full-bodied  gayety  of  our  English  Cider-cellar. " 

Most  of  the  London  newspapers,  too,  receive 
their  garlands.  That  of  "The  Times"  is  most 
taking :  — 

" '  Nay, '  often  this  enthusiast  continues,  getting 
excited  as  he  goes  on,  '  "  The  Times  "  itself,  which 
so  stirs  some  people's  indignation, —  what  is  "The 
Times  "  but  a  gigantic  Sancho  Panza,  following  by 
an  attraction  he  cannot  resist  that  poor,  mad, 
scorned,  suffering,  sublime  enthusiast,  the  modern 
spirit;  following  it,  indeed,  with  constant  grum 
bling,  expostulation,  and  opposition,  with  airs  of  pro 
tection,  of  compassionate  superiority,  with  an  inces 
sant  by- play  of  nods,  shrugs,  and  winks  addressed 
to  the  spectators;  following  it,  in  short,  with  all  the 
incurable  recalcitrancy  of  a  lower  nature,  but  still 
following  it?'" 

In  "Friendship's  Garland"  many  of  the  shafts 
Arnold  has  aimed  at  his  countrymen  in  his  previous 
books  are  refeathered  and  repointed  and  shot  with 
a  grace  and  playful  mockery  that  are  immensely  di 
verting.  He  has  perhaps  never  done  anything  so 
artistic  and  so  full  of  genius.  It  fulfills  its  purpose 
with  a  grace  and  a  completeness  that  awaken  in  one 
the  feeling  of  the  delicious;  it  is  the  only  one  of 
his  books  one  can  call  delicious. 


128  INDOOR    STUDIES 

Anything  like  passion,  or  heat  of  the  blood,  Ar 
nold  is  especially  shy  of.  As  Marcus  Aurelius  said 
of  his  imperial  father,  on  all  occasions  he  "  stops  short 
of  the  sweating  point."  Heat  begets  fumes  and 
fumes  cloud  the  sky,  and  Arnold's  strength  is  al 
ways  in  his  unclouded  intelligence.  An  unclouded 
intelligence  is  among  the  supreme  gifts,  but  it  is  not 
all.  Arnold  makes  us  so  in  love  with  it  that  we 
quite  forget  the  broader  and  more  intensely  human 
qualities,  and  the  part  they  play  in  our  highest  men 
tal  operations.  Truly,  as  he  says  in  "Youth  and 
Calm,"  — 

"Calm  's  not  life's  crown,  though  calm  is  well." 

Arnold's  desire  for  calm,  for  tranquillity,  for 
perfection,  probably  stands  in  the  way  of  his  full 
appreciation  of  certain  types  of  men.  All  great 
movements  and  revolutions  are  at  the  expense  of 
calm,  of  measure,  proportion,  etc.  A  certain  bias, 
a  certain  heat  and  onesidedness,  are  necessary  to 
break  the  equilibrium  and  set  the  currents  going. 
The  master  forces  of  this  world,  like  Luther  in 
religion,  or  Cromwell  in  politics,  or  Victo  Hugo  or 
Shakespeare  in  literature,  or  Turner  in  art,  are  not 
nicely  measured  and  adjusted.  In  the  modern 
world,  especially,  is  man  onesided,  unclassical,  frag 
mentary;  a  great  talent  here,  another  there,  but 
nowhere  the  wholeness  and  totality  Arnold  pleads 
for. 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE 

TOURING-  Matthew  Arnold's  first  visit  to  this 
^—^  country,  in  1883-84,  he  lectured  in  various 
cities  upon  Emerson,  with  whose  name  he  linked 
that  of  Carlyle.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him 
in  New  York  on  the  occasion  of  the  second  or  third 
repetition  of  his  lecture  in  that  city.  Some  weeks 
previously  I  had  met  him  at  a  reception  at  the  house 
of  a  friend.  In  my  note-book  I  find  I  made  the 
following  note  of  the  impression  he  made  upon  me 
on  this  occasion :  "  Liked  him  better  than  I  expected 
to.  A  large,  tall  man  with  black  hair  streaked  with 
gray,  black  close-cut  side-whiskers,  prominent  nose, 
large  coarse  (but  pure)  mouth  and  muscular  neck. 
In  fact  a  much  coarser  man  than  you  would  expect 
to  see,  and  stronger-looking.  A  good  specimen  of 
the  best  English  stock,  plenty  of  color,  a  wholesome 
coarseness  and  open-air  look.  One  would  say  that 
he  belonged  to  a  bigger  and  more  powerful  race 
than  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  room.  His  voice 
was  more  husky,  more  like  a  sailor's,  I  thought, 
than  the  other  voices  I  heard.  When  he  talks  to 
you  he  throws  his  head  back  (the  reverse  of  Emer 
son's  manner),  and  looks  out  from  under  his  heavy 


130  INDOOR   STUDIES 

eyelids,  and  sights  you  down  his  big  nose  —  draws 
off,  as  it  were,  and  gives  you  his  chin.  It  is  the 
critical  attitude,  not  the  sympathetic.  Yet  he  does 
not  impress  one  as  cold  and  haughty,  but  quite  the 
contrary. " 

He  was  not  an  entertaining  speaker;  his  voice 
was  too  thick  and  foggy.  One  would  rather  read, 
his  discourse  than  hear  it. 

To  one  who  knows  Arnold's  devotion  to  the 
classic  standards,  the  calm  and  moderation  of  Greek 
art,  his  verdict  upon  such  writers  as  Emerson  and 
Carlyle  will  not  be  much  of  a  surprise.  Tried  by 
the  classic  standards,  both  these  illustrious  men  are 
undoubtedly  barbarians.  Emerson  has  indeed  the 
lofty  serenity  of  Greek  art,  but  his  fragmentary 
character,  his  mysticism,  his  exaggeration,  his  cease 
less  effort  to  surprise,  are  anything  but  classical. 
The  distinctive  features  of  classic  literature,  its  re 
pose,  its  measure,  its  subordination  of  parts,  and 
hence  its  wholeness,  he  probably  cared  little  for. 
Speaking  in  one  of  his  essays  of  how  Greek  sculp 
ture  has  melted  away  like  ice  and  snow  in  the  spring, 
he  says :  "  The  Greek  letters  last  a  little  longer,  but 
are  always  passing  under  the  same  sentence,  and 
tumbling  into  the  inevitable  pit  which  the  creation 
of  new  thought  opens  for  all  that  is  old."  Carlyle 
is  a  barbarian  in  his  style,  his  uncouthness,  his  ve 
hemence,  his  despair,  his  prejudices,  and  in  the  open 
conflict  and  incongruity  between  his  inherited  and 
his  acquired  traits,  —  between  his  German  culture, 
which  was  from  without,  and  his  Scotch  Presbyteri- 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   131 

anism,  which  was  from  within.  Carlyle  had  no  tran 
quillity  ;  the  waters  of  his  soul  were  lashed  into  fury 
the  whole  time.  The  Greek  was  at  ease  in  Zion, 
as  Mr.  Arnold  somewhere  says,  but  think  of  Carlyle 
being  at  ease  in  Zion !  Indeed,  one  must  put  his 
classic  standards  behind  him  when  he  gives  an  un 
qualified  admiration  to  either  Emerson  or  Carlyle  as 
men  of  letters. 

The  force  of  Arnold's  criticism  came  from  the  fact 
that  it  was  by  a  man  who  had  a  real  and  tangible 
point  of  view  of  his  own,  and  who,  therefore,  gave 
a  real  and  consistent  account  of  the  subject  he  dis 
cussed.  His  view  of  Emerson  was  not  the  view  of 
Emerson  generally  held  in  this  country,  but  it  was 
such  a  view  of  him  as  puts  any  man  who  holds  a 
contrary  one  upon  his  mettle,  and  challenges  him  to 
give  as  good  an  account  of  his  own  faith.  Much  of 
the  writing  upon  Emerson  had  been  indiscriminat- 
ing,  and  by  men  who  had  no  definite  point  of  view 
of  their  own.  Even  Mr.  Morley's  essay  recently 
published  is  not  so  satisfying  a  piece  of  work  as 
Arnold's,  though  he  arrives  at  nearly  the  same  con 
clusions;  but  he  wanders  more  in  reaching  them; 
his  course  is  not  so  direct  and  steady;  in  fact,  the 
point  of  view  is  not  so  clear  and  definite.  He  may 
conduct  us  to  as  commanding  a  height,  but  there  is 
often  a  tangle  of  words  and  fine  phrases  in  the  way. 

But  it  is  the  great  merit  of  Matthew  Arnold  as  a 
critic  that  he  always  has  a  clear  and  unmistakable 
point  of  view,  that  he  always  knows  his  point  of 
view  and  never  wanders  far  from  it.  The  opening 


132  INDOOR   STUDIES 

passages  of  Arnold's  lecture  were  in  a  strain  of  such 
noble  and  impressive  eloquence  that  I  must  indulge 
myself  in  transcribing  some  of  them  here. 

"Forty  years  ago,"  he  began,  "when  I  was  an 
undergraduate  at  Oxford,  voices  were  in  the  air  then 
which  haunt  my  memory  still.  Happy  the  man 
who  in  that  susceptible  season  of  youth  hears  such 
voices!  they  are  a  possession  to  him  forever.  No 
such  voices  as  those  we  heard  in  our  youth  at  Ox 
ford  are  sounding  there  now.  Oxford  has  more  crit 
icism  now,  more  knowledge,  more  light;  but  such 
voices  as  those  of  our  youth  it  has  no  longer.  The 
name  of  Cardinal  Newman  is  a  great  name  to  the 
imagination  still;  his  genius  and  his  style  are  still 
things  of  power.  But  he  is  over  eighty  years  old; 
he  is-  in  the  Oratory  at  Birmingham ;  he  has  adopted 
for  the  doubts  and  difficulties  which  beset  men's 
minds  to-day  a  solution  which,  to  speak  frankly,  is 
impossible."  .  .  .  "But  there  were  other  voices 
sounding  in  our  ears  besides  Newman's.  There  was 
the  puissant  voice  of  Carlyle,  so  sorely  strained, 
overused,  and  misused  since,  but  then  fresh,  com 
paratively  sound,  and  reaching  our  hearts  with  true 
pathetic  eloquence.".  .  .  "A  greater  voice  still  — 
the  greatest  voice  of  the  century  —  came  to  us  in 
those  youthful  years  through  CarlyJe:  the  voice  of 
Goethe."  .  .  .  "  And  beside  those  voices  there  came 
to  us  in  that  old  Oxford  time  a  voice  also  from  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic, —  a  clear  and  pure  voice,  which, 
for  my  ear  at  any  rate,  brought  a  strain  as  new,  and 
moving,  and  unforgettable  as  the  strain  of  Newman 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE  133 

or  Carlyle  or  Goethe.  Mr.  Lowell  has  well  de 
scribed  the  apparition  of  Emerson,  to  your  young 
generation  here,  in  the  distant  time  of  which  I  am 
speaking,  and  of  his  workings  upon  them.  He  was 
your  Newman,  your  man  of  soul  and  genius  visible 
to  you  in  the  flesh,  speaking  to  your  bodily  ears,  —  a 
present  object  for  your  heart  and  imagination.  That 
is  surely  the  most  potent  of  all  influences !  nothing 
can  come  up  to  it.  To  us  at  Oxford,  Emerson  was 
but  a  voice  speaking  from  three  thousand  miles 
away.  But  so  well  he  spoke  that  from  that  time 
forth  Boston  Bay  and  Concord  were  names  invested 
to  my  ear  with  a  sentiment  akin  to  that  which 
invests  for  me  the  names  of  Oxford  and  Weimar; 
and  snatches  of  Emerson's  strain  fixed  themselves 
in  my  mind  as  imperishably  as  any  of  the  eloquent 
words  which  I  have  been  just  now  quoting." 

A  lofty  and  eloquent  introduction  was  that,  and 
one  well  worth  the  subject  and  the  occasion.  The 
disappointment  and  irritation  which  his  hearers  felt 
as  the  lecturer  proceeded  arose  from  the  fact  that 
the  critic  was  at  much  less  pains  to  justify  this 
favorable  view  of  Emerson,  which  he  had  sounded 
in  his  opening  note,  than  he  was  to  establish  the  ad 
verse  view  of  him  as  a  poet  and  philosopher  which 
he  felt  sure  would  in  time  be  taken.  The  gist  of 
the  speaker's  view  of  Emerson  was  briefly  as  fol 
lows:  Emerson  was  not  a  great  poet,  was  not  to  be 
ranked  among  the  legitimate  poets,  because  his 
poetry  had  not  the  Miltonic  requirements  of  simpli 
city,  sensuousness,  and  passion.  He  was  not  even  a 


134  INDOOR   STUDIES 

great  man  of  letters,  because  he  had  not  a  genius  and 
instinct  for  style;  his  style  had  not  the  requisite 
wholeness  of  good  tissue.  Who  were  the  great  men 
of  letters?  They  were  Plato,  Cicero,  Voltaire,  La 
Bruyere,  Milton,  Addison,  Swift,  —  men  whose 
prose  is  by  a  kind  of  native  necessity  true  and 
sound.  Emerson  was  not  a  great  philosopher,  be 
cause  he  had  no  constructive  talent,  —  he  could  not 
build  a  system  of  philosophy.  What,  then,  was  his 
merit  \  He  was  to  be  classed  with  Marcus  Aurelius, 
who  was  "the  friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would 
live  in  the  spirit."  This  was  Emerson's  chief 
merit  and  service:  he  was  the  friend  and  aider  of 
those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit.  The  secret  of 
his  influence  was  not  in  his  thought;  it  was  in  his 
temper,  his  unfaltering  spirit  of  cheerfulness  and 
hope. 

In  the  opinion  of  the  speaker,  even  Carlyle  was 
not  a  great  writer,  and  his  work  was  of  much  less 
importance  than  Emerson's.  As  Wordsworth's  po 
etry  was  the  most  important  work  done  in  verse  in 
our  language  during  the  nineteenth  century,  so 
Emerson's  essays  were,  in  the  lecturer's  view,  the 
most  important  work  done  in  prose.  Carlyle  was 
not  a  great  writer,  because  he  was  too  impatient,  too 
willful,  too  vehement;  he  did  not  work  his  material 
up  into  good  literary  form. 

In  his  essay  on  Joubert,  Arnold  says,  following 
a  remark  of  Sainte-Beuve,  that  as  to  the  estimate 
of  its  own  authors  every  nation  is  the  best  judge 
(the  positive  estimate,  not  the  comparative,  as  regards 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   135 

the  authors  of  other  countries),  and  that,  therefore, 
a  foreigner's  judgments  about  the  intrinsic  merits  of 
a  nation's  authors  will  generally,  when  at  complete 
variance  with  that  nation's  own,  be  wrong.  Ar 
nold's  verdict  upon  Emerson's  intrinsic  merits  was 
certainly  at  variance  with  that  of  the  best  judges 
among  Emerson's  countrymen,  and  is  likely,  there 
fore,  according  to  the  above  dictum,  to  be  wrong. 
But  whether  it  was  or  not,  it  is  no  doubt  true  that 
every  people  possesses  a  key  to  its  own  great  men, 
or  to  those  who  share  its'  tendencies  and  hopes,  that 
a  foreigner  cannot  possess,  whatsoever  keys  of  an 
other  sort  he  may  bring  with  him. 

From  Arnold's  point  of  view,  his  criticism  of 
Emerson  was  just  and  consistent;  but  he  said  he 
spoke  not  of  himself,  but  assumed  to  anticipate  the 
verdict  of  time  and  fate  upon  this  man.  But  time 
and  fate  have  ways  of  their  own  in  dealing  with 
reputations,  and  the  point  of  view  of  the  future 
with  reference  to  this  subject  is,  I  imagine,  as  likely 
to  be  different  from  Mr.  Arnold's  as  it  is  to  be  one 
with  it. 

In  the  view  which  the  speaker  took  of  Emerson 
and  Carlyle,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  laid  too  little 
stress  upon  their  intrinsic  quality  of  genius  and  of 
the  real  force  and  stimulus  they  left  embodied  in 
literary  forms,  —  imperfect  or  inadequate  forms  if 
you  will,  but  still  literary  forms.  Did  the  speaker 
draw  out  for  us  and  impart  to  us  what  of  worth  and 
significance  there  was  in  these  men?  Did  he  convey 
to  us  a  lively  impression  of  their  genius  ?  I  think 


136  INDOOR   STUDIES 

not.  And  yet  he  has  told  us  in  his  essay  on  Jou- 
bert  that  this  is  the  main  matter;  he  asks,  "What 
is  really  precious  and  inspiring,  in  all  that  we  get 
from  literature,  except  this  sense  of  an  immediate 
contract  with  genius  itself,  and  the  stimulus  toward 
what  is  true  and  excellent  which  we  derive  from  it  ?  " 
Like  all  other  writers,  when  Arnold  speaks  from  the 
traditions  of  his  culture  and  the  influence  of  his 
environment,  he  is  far  less  helpful  and  satisfactory 
than  when  he  speaks  from  his  native  genius  and  in 
sight,  and  gives  free  play  to  that  wonderfully  clear, 
sensitive,  flexible,  poetic  mind  of  his.  And  in  this 
verdict  upon  Emerson  and  Carlyle,  it  seems  to  me, 
he  speaks  more  from  his  bias,  more  from  his  dislike 
of  nonconformists,  than  from  his  genius. 

We  have  had  much  needed  service  from  Arnold; 
he  has  taught  his  generation  the  higher  criticism,  as 
Sainte-Beuve  taught  it  to  his.  A  singularly  logical 
and  constructive  mind,  yet  a  singularly  fluid  and  in 
terpretative  one,  giving  to  his  criticism  charm,  as 
well  as  force  and  penetration. 

All  readers  of  his  know  how  free  he  is  from  any 
thing  strained  or  fantastic  or  paradoxical,  and  how 
absolutely  single  his  eye  is.  His  page  flows  as  lim 
pid  and  tranquil  as  a  meadow  brook,  loitering  under 
this  bank  and  under  that,  but  yet  really  flowing, 
really  abounding  in  continuous  currents  of  ideas  that 
lead  to  large  and  definite  results.  His  works  fur 
nish  abundant  illustrations  of  the  principle  of  evo 
lution  in  literature  which  he  demands  of  others. 
He  makes  no  use  of  the  Emersonian  method  of  sur- 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE  137 

prise;  his  ideas  never  suddenly  leap  out  full-grown 
from  his  brain,  but  slowly  develop  and  unfold  be 
fore  you,  and  there  are  no  missing  links.  Any  given 
'thought  is  continuous  with  him,  and  grows  and  ex 
pands  with  new  ramifications  and  radiations,  from 
year  to  year.  This  gives  a  wonderful  consecutive- 
ness  and  wholeness  to  his  work,  as  well  as  great 
clearness  and  simplicity.  Yet  one  sometimes  feels 
a&  if  his  keen  sense  of  form  and  order  sometimes 
stood  between  him  and  the  highest  truths.  I  believe 
the  notions  we  get  from  him  of  the  scope  and  func 
tion  of  poetry,  and  of  the  value  and  significance  of 
style,  are  capable  of  revision. 

Less  stringency  of  form  is  to  be  insisted  upon,  less 
servility  to  the  classic  standards.  We  live  in  an  age 
of  expansion,  not  of  concentration,  as  Arnold  long 
ago  said;  "like  the  traveler  in  the  fable,  therefore, 
we  begin  to  wear  our  cloak  a  little  more  loosely." 
In  literature  we  are  coming  more  and  more  to  look 
beyond  the  form  into  the  substance;  yea,  into  the 
mood  and  temper  that  begat  the  substance. 

"The  chief  trait  of  any  given  poet,"  says  a  re 
cent  authority,  "  is  always  the  spirit  he  brings  to  the 
observation  of  humanity  and  nature,  —  the  mood  out 
of  which  he  contemplates  his  subject.  What  kind 
of  temper  and  what  amount  of  faith  reports  these 
things?" 

Of  like  purport  is  the  well-known  passage  of 
Sainte-Beuve,  wherein,  after  referring  to  the  de 
mands  and  standards  of  the  classic  age,  he  says  that 
for  us  to-day  "the  greatest  poet  is  not  he  who  has 


138  INDOOR   STUDIES 

done  the  best, "  —  that  is,  written  the  most  perfect 
poem  from  the  classic  standpoint ;  "  it  is  he  who  sug 
gests  the  most,  —  he,  not  all  of  whose  meaning  is  at 
first  obvious,  and  who  leaves  you  much  to  desire,  to 
explain,  to  study,  much  to  complete  in  your  turn." 

In  the  decay  of  the  old  faiths,  and  in  the  huge 
aggrandizement  of  physical  science,  the  refuge  and 
consolation  of  serious  and  truly  religious  minds  is 
more  and  more  in  literature,  and  in  the  free  escapes 
and  outlooks  which  it  supplies.  The  best  modern 
poetry  and  the  best  modern  prose  take  down  the 
bars  for  us  and  admit  us  to  new  and  large  fields  of 
moral  and  intellectual  conquest  in  a  way  the  antique 
authors  could  not  and  did  not  aim  to  do.  New 
wants,  and  therefore  new  standards,  have  arisen. 
Purely  literary  poets  like  Shakespeare  and  Milton, 
priceless  as  they  are,  are  of  less  service  to  mankind 
in  an  age  like  ours,  when  religion  is  shunned  by  the 
religious  soul,  than  the  more  exceptional  poets  and 
writers,  like  Goethe  and  Carlyle,  or  Wordsworth 
and  Emerson,  —  the  wise  physicians  and  doctors  who 
also  minister  to  our  wants  as  moral  and  spiritual 
beings. 

The  type  of  men  of  which  Emerson  and  Carlyle 
are  the  most  pronounced  and  influential  examples  in 
our  time,  it  must  be  owned,  is  comparatively  a  new 
turn-up  in  literature,  —  men  whose  highest  distinc 
tion  is  the  depth  and  fervor  of  their  moral  convic 
tion,  whose  greatness  of  character  is  on  a  par  with 
their  greatness  of  intellect ;  a  new  style  of  man  writ 
ing  poems,  essays,  criticisms,  histories,  and  filling 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   139 

these  forms  with  a  spirit  and  a  suggestiveness  far 
more  needful  and  helpful  to  us  in  these  times  than 
the  mere  spirit  of  perfection  in  letters,  —  the  classic 
spirit,  which  Mr.  Arnold  himself  so  assiduously  cul 
tivates. 

To  say  that  Carlyle  is  not  a  great  writer,  or,  more 
than  that,  a  supreme  literary  artist,  is  to  me  like 
denying  that  Angelo  and  Rembrandt  were  great 
painters,  or  that  the  sea  is  a  great  body  of  water. 
His  life  of  herculean  labor  was  entirely  given  to 
letters,  and  he  undoubtedly  brought  to  his  tasks  the 
greatest  single  equipment  of  pure  literary  talent  Eng 
lish  prose  has  ever  received.  Beside  some  of  the 
men  named  by  the  lecturer,  his  illuminating  power 
is  like  the  electric  light  beside  a  tallow  dip.  Not  a 
perfect  writer  certainly,  nor  always  an  agreeable  one ; 
but  he  exhibited  at  all  times  the  traits  which  the 
world  has  consented  to  call  great.  He  bequeathed 
to  mankind  an  enormous  intellectual  force  and  weight 
of  character,  embodied  in  enduring  literary  forms. 

I  know  it  has  become  the  fashion  to  disparage  Car 
lyle 's  histories;  it  is  said  he  has  been  superseded 
by  the  more  scientific  historians.  When  the  scien 
tific  artist  supersedes  Michael  Angelo,  and  the  sci 
entific  poet  supersedes  Shakespeare,  then  probably 
the  scientific  historian  will  supersede  Carlyle.  The 
scientific  spirit,  wln-n  applied  to  historical  problems, 
is  —  like  chemistry  applied  to  agriculture  —  valuable, 
but  great  results  have  been  achieved  in  quite  another 
spirit.  Scientific  method  can  exhume  the  past,  but 
cannot  breathe  the  breath  of  life  into  it,  as  Carlyle 


140  INDOOR   STUDIES 

did.  Your  scientific  critic  is  usually  a  wearisome 
creature.  We  do  not  so  much  want  history  ex 
plained  after  the  manner  of  science  as  we  want  it 
portrayed  and  interpreted  after  the  manner  of  liter 
ature.  And  the  explanations  of  these  experts  is 
usually  only  clever  thimble-rigging.  If  they  ferret 
the  mystery  out  of  one  hole,  they  run  it  to  cover  in 
another.  How  clever,  for  instance,  is  Taine's  ex 
planation  of  those  brilliant  epochs  in  the  history  of 
nations  when  groups  of  great  men  are  produced,  and 
literatures  and  arts  get  founded!  Why,  it  is  only 
the  result  of  a  "hidden  concord  of  creative  forces;  " 
and  the  opposite  periods,  the  periods  of  sterility,  are 
the  result  of  "  inward  contrarieties. "  Truly,  a  rose 
by  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet.  What 
causes  the  hidden  concord,  etc.,  so  that  we  can  lay 
our  hand  upon  the  lever  and  bring  about  the  splen 
did  epochs  at  a  given  time,  the  astute  Frenchman 
does  not  tell  us.  I  like  better  the  explanation 
of  the  old  Roman,  Paterculus,  namely,  emulation 
among  men ;  yes,  and  emulation  in  Nature  herself. 
One  great  orator  or  poet  will  make  others.  Or 
Emerson's  suggestion,  which  is  just  as  near  the 
truth,  and  much  more  taking  to  the  imagination :  — 
"  Heats  or  genial  periods  arrive  in  history,  or, 
shall  we  say,  plenitudes  of  Divine  Presence,  by 
which  high  tides  are  caused  in  the  human  spirit,  and 
great  virtues  and  talents  appear,  as  in  the  eleventh, 
twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  again  in  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries,  when  the  nation  (England) 
was  full  of  genius  and  piety." 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   141 

Carlyle's  bias  does  not,  in  my  opinion,  mar  his 
histories  at  all,  and  we  can  always  allow  for  it  when 
he  writes  upon  any  subject,  —  upon  America,  for  in 
stance,  or  "Shooting  Niagara."  It  does' not  mar 
his  "Cromwell,"  but  lends  zest  to  it.  He  was 
himself  the  fiery  partisan  he  was  portraying.  It 
does  not  mar  "Frederick,"  though  the  author's  par 
tialities  and  prepossessions  crop  out  on  every  page. 
What  vivid  portraiture,  what  rapid  grouping,  what 
reality^  what  exhaustless  wit  and  humor,  what  en 
tertainment  for  both  heart  and  head,  this  book  holds ! 

Most  readers  of  "Frederick,"  I  imagine,  find  the 
work  too  long,  and  at  times  feel  a  strong  inclination 
to  "skip,"  an  inclination  which  the  author  himself 
favors  by  putting  his  less  important  matter  in  finer 
type.  A  little  more  rigid  selection  and  abridgment, 
and  a  little  more  patient  fusing  of  the  material  so  as 
to  have  brought  the  work  within  the  compass  of  one 
third  less  space,  and  within  the  compass  of  the  au 
thor's  best  time  and  strength,  and  literature  would 
have  been  the  gainer. 

Carlyle's  prose  has  its  defects  most  assuredly. 
His  periods  are  often  like  those  swelled  bricks  that 
have  got  too  much  of  the  fire,  —  crabbed  and  perverse. 
His  earnestness,  his  fury  of  conviction,  made  it  too 
hot  for  them ;  his  style  becomes  distorted.  In  the 
best  prose  there  is  always  a  certain  smoothness  and 
homogeneity.  "In  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and 
(as  I  may  say)  whirlwind  of  your  passion,"  says 
Hamlet  in  his  address  to  the  players,  "you  must 
acquire  and  beget  a  temperance  that  will  give  it 


142  INDOOR   STUDIES 

smoothness."  If  not  external  smoothness,  then  cer 
tainly  internal,  —  a  fusion  or  blending  that  is  like 
good  digestion.  Carlyle  does  not  always  have  this; 
Emerson  does  not  always  have  it;  Whitman  does 
not  always  have  it,  probably  does  not  always  strive 
for  it ;  Browning  rarely  or  never  has  it.  There  is  a 
good  deal  in  Carlyle  that  is  difficult,  not  in  thought 
but  in  expression.  To  the  reader  it  is  a  kind  of 
mechanical  difficulty,  like  walking  over  .bowlders. 
In  his  best  work,  like  the  life  of  Sterling,  his  essays 
on  Johnson  and  Voltaire,  and  the  battle-pieces  in 
"Frederick,"  there  is  the  least  of  this. 

There  is  a  point  of  perfection  in  art,"  says  La 
Bruyere,  "as  there  is  of  goodness  and  ripeness  in 
nature.  He  who  feels  and  loves  it  has  perfect  taste ; 
he  who  feels  it  not,  who  loves  something  beneath 
or  beyond  it,  has  faulty  taste. "  In  the  life  of  Ster 
ling,  more  completely  than  in  any  other  one  of  his 
books,  Carlyle  attains  to  this  goodness  and  ripeness 
of  nature.  He  is  calm  and  mellow ;  there  is  nothing 
to  inflame  him,  but  everything  to  soften  and  quiet 
him ;  and  his  work  is  of  unrivaled  richness  in  all  the 
noblest  literary  qualities.  But  at  other  times  he  was 
after  something  beneath  or  beyond  the  point  of  per 
fection  in  art.  He  was  not  primarily  a  critical  or 
literary  force  like  Arnold  himself,  but  a  moral  force 
working  in  and  through  literature.  He  was  the  con 
science  of  his  country  and  times,  wrought  up  to  an 
almost  prophetic  fervor  and  abandonment,  and  to  cut 
deep  was  more  a  point  with  him  than  to  cut  smooth. 

Again,  his  defects  as  a  writer  probably  arose  out 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   143 

of  his  wonderful  merits  as  a  talker.  He  was  in  the 
first  instance  a  talker,  and  he  came  finally  to  write 
as  he  talked,  so  that  the  page,  to  retain  all  its  charm 
and  effectiveness,  needs  the  Carlyle  voice  and  man 
ner,  and  the  Carlyle  laugh  superadded.  These  would 
give  it  smoothness  and  completion.  One  rather  likes 
a  certain  roughness  in  a  man's  style,  but  it  must  be 
a  smooth  roughness;  the  roughness  of  a  muscular 
arm,  and  not  of  a  malformed  or  an  ill-shapen  one. 

Of  course  all  these  considerations  tell  against  Car 
lyle 's  claim  to  be  considered  a  great  writer;  yet  one 
may  freely  admit  them  and  still  call  him  a  great 
writer.  Style  alone  does  not  make  the  great  writer, 
any  more  than  faultless  tactics  make  the  great  gen 
eral;  and  the  upshot  of  Carlyle 's  literary  life  is  an 
array  of  volumes,  not  without  serious  blemishes,  it 
is  true,  like  the  campaigns  of  Frederick  or  Welling 
ton  or  Grant,  but  which,  nevertheless,  represent  a 
solidity  and  splendor  of  achievement  such  as  the 
world  calls  great. 

Arnold  criticised  what  he  called  Carlyle's  "per 
verse  attitude  towards  happiness,"  but  it  was  only 
a  cheap,  easy  happiness  that  Carlyle  railed  against. 
He  taught  that  there  was  a  higher  happiness, 
namely,  blessedness  —  the  spiritual  fruition  that 
comes  through  renunciation  of  self,  the  happiness 
of  heroes  that  comes  from  putting  thoughts  of  happi 
ness  out  of  sight;  and  that  the  direct  and  persistent 
wooing  of  fortune  for  her  good  gifts  was  selfish  and 
unmanly,  —  a  timely  lesson  at  all  seasons. 

Emerson,  too,  is  a  great  figure  in  modern  literary 


144  INDOOR   STUDIES 

history,  and  to  his  worth  and  significance,  in  this 
connection,  the  speaker  did  very  inadequate  justice. 
We  know  there  is  much  in  Emerson's  works  that 
will  not  stand  rigid  literary  tests;  much  that  is  too 
fanciful  and  ethereal,  too  curious  and  paradoxi 
cal,  —  not  real  or  true,  but  only  seemingly  so,  or  so 
by  a  kind  of  violence  and  disruption.  The  weak 
place  in  him  as  a  literary  artist  is  probably  his  want 
of  continuity  and  the  tie  of  association, —  a  want 
which,  as  he  grew  old,  became  a  disease,  and  led  to 
a  break  in  his  mind  like  that  of  a  bridge  with  one 
of  the  piers  gone,  and  his  power  of  communication 
was  nearly  or  quite  lost.  Anything  like  architectural 
completeness  Emerson  did  not  possess.  There  is  no 
artistic  conception  that  runs  the  length  and  breadth 
of  any  of  his  works ;  no  unity  of  scheme  or  plan  like 
that  of  an  architect,  or  of  a  composer,  that  makes 
an  inevitable  whole  of  any  of  his  books  or  essays; 
seldom  a  central  and  leading  idea  of  which  the  rest 
are  but  radiations  and  unfoldings.  His  essays  are 
fragmentary,  —  successions  of  brilliant  and  startling 
affirmations  or  vaticinations,  with  little  or  no  logi 
cal  sequence.  In  other  words,  there  are  seldom  any 
currents  of  ideas  in  Emerson's  essays,  but  sallies  and 
excursions  of  the  mind,  as  if  to  get  beyond  the  re 
gion  of  rational  thinking  into  the  region  of  surmise 
and  prophecy,  — jets  and  projectiles  of  thought 
under  great  pressure,  the  pressure  of  the  moral 
genius.  He  says,  speaking  more  for  himself  than 
for  others:  "We  learn  to  prefer  imperfect  theories 
and  sentences,  which  contain  glimpses  of  the  truth, 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   145 

to  digested  systems  which  have  no  one  valuable 
suggestion."  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to 
condense  any  of  his  essays;  they  are  the  last  results 
of  condensation;  we  can  only  cut  them  up  and 
abridge  them.  So  far  as  this  criticism  tells  against 
Emerson  as  a  literary  artist,  it  must  be  allowed. 

Emerson  speaks  slightingly  of  logic,  but  his  own 
prose  is  undoubtedly  the  best  when  it  is  the  most 
logical,  —  that  is,  the  most  consecutive  and  flow 
ing.  Logic  in  this  sense  is  no  more  the  enemy  of 
spontaneity  than  his  method  of  bold  guessing  is. 
"Logic,"  he  says,  "is  the  procession  or  proportion 
ate  unfolding  of  the  intuition."  This  "unfolding" 
is  indispensable  to  all  good  prose,  and  Arnold  did 
not  lay  too  much  stress  upon  it.  Emerson's  prose 
does  not  always  have  it;  and  just  in  proportion 
as  it  is  without  it,  is  it  unsound  prose.  When  the 
reader  comes  upon  a  continuous  passage  in  the 
Essays,  one  in  which  the  thought  is  unfolded  and 
carried  along  from  point  to  point,  how  easily  and 
joyously  the  mind  passes  over  it!  It  is  like  a  con 
tinuous  path,  after  we  have  been  picking  our  way 
from  one  isolated  stone  to  another.  The  first  chap 
ter  in  "Representative  Men,"  on  the  use  of  great 
men,  is  a  stony  and  broken  path;  the  mind  labors 
more  or  less  in  getting  through  it;  but  the  chapters 
that  follow  have  much  more  unity  and  wholeness,  — 
much  more  smoothness  and  continuity  of  thought. 
So  has  "  English  Traits  "  more  consecutiveness  and 
unity  than  the  essays.  Among  the  essays  those 
on  Books,  on  Immortality,  on  Nature,  on  Beauty, 


146  INDOOR    STUDIES 

on  Self-Beliance,  have  more  logical  sequence  and 
evolution  than  certain  others. 

Emerson's  style  is  best  when  he  is  dealing  with 
something  real  and  tangible  before  him,  as  in  his 
biographical  and  descriptive  papers,  his  "English 
Traits,"  etc.,  and  poorest  in  his  "Dial"  papers,  etc. 
His  letters  often  seem  stilted  and  affected,  but  they 
nevertheless  contain  many  samples  of  his  best  prose. 
Take  this  from  a  letter  to  Carlyle  about  "Fred 
erick  :  "  "  But  the  manner  of  it !  —  the  author  sitting 
as  Demiurgus,  trotting  out  his  manikins,  coaxing 
and  bantering  them,  amused  with  their  good  per 
formance,  patting  them  on  the  back,  and  rating  the 
naughty  dolls  when  they  misbehave;  and  commu 
nicating  his  mind  ever  in  measure,  just  as  much 
as  the  young  public  can  understand;  hinting  the 
future,  when  it  would  be  useful;  recalling  now  and 
then  illustrative  anecdotes  of  the  actor,  impressing 
the  reader  that  he  is  in  possession  of  the  entire  his 
tory  centrally  seen,  that  his  investigation  has  been 
exhaustive,  and  that  he  descends,  too,  on  the  petty 
plot  of  Prussia  from  higher  and  cosmical  surveys." 

Who  will  say  that  the  pen  which  wrote  that  is 
not  capable  of  good  and  sound  prose  as  well  as  of 
very  acute  and  telling  criticism?  Carlyle 's  egotism 
and  patronizing  ways  in  his  histories  have  never  been 
better  touched  off. 

If  Emerson  did  not  have  the  gift  of  style  in  the 
rather  exclusive  sense  in  which  Arnold  uses  the 
term,  he  had  something  which  is  a  very  good  substi 
tute  for  it,  —  he  had  a  fresh,  tonic  quality  of  mind 


(    UNIVERSITY    j 
J 

^^^LD'SHWi^^OF 


EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE  147 


which  he  imparted  to  nearly  everything  he  wrote. 
A  man's  use  of  language  reveals  the  very  fibre  and 
texture  of  his  mind.  Silk  is  silk  and  hemp  is 
hemp,  and  the  hand  knows  the  difference  wherever 
it  touches  them ;  but  in  literature  the  same  words  are 
silk  or  hemp  according  to  the  mind  that  uses  them. 
Emerson's  page  nearly  always  makes  the  impression 
of  this  finer  and  more  precious  quality,  and,  what 
ever  may  be  its  defects,  belongs  to  literature  pure 
and  simple. 

Probably  the  best  test  of  good  prose  is  this:  It 
is  always  creative;  it  begets  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader  a  deep  and  pervading  sense  of  life  and  real 
ity.  Now  that  Arnold  is  gone,  how  many  writers 
of  creative  prose  are  there  in  England?  Now  that 
Emerson  is  gone,  how  many  are  there  in  America  1 
Is  Mr.  Gladstone's  prose  creative?  Far  from  it, 
I  think.  Is  Mr.  Euskin's?  With  all  his  bril 
liancy,  I  think  Kuskin  lacks  the  creative  touch. 
Emerson  falls  short  of  it  many  times,  but  at  his  best 
the  creative  power  of  the  best  prose  was  assuredly 
his.  He  often  had  that  felicity  of  utterance  that 
diffuses  such  light  and  joy  in  the  mind. 

The  greatness  of  his  work  consists  in  the  meas 
ure  of  pure  genius  and  of  inspiration  to  noble  and 
heroic  conduct  which  it  holds.  As  a  writer  he  had 
but  one  aim,  namely,  to  inspire,  to  wake  up  his 
leader  or  hearer  to  the  noblest  and  the  highest 
there  was  in  him;  and  it  was  no  part  of  his  plan  to 
enter  into  competition  with  the  Addisonian  writers 
for  the  production  of  perfect  literary  work,  —  perfect 


148  INDOOR    STUDIES 

from  the  standpoint  of  extrinsic  form,  argument, 
logic,  evolution.  His  purpose  did  not  require  it, 
his  genius  did  not  demand  it.  He  was  to  scatter  the 
seed-germs  of  nobler  thinking  and  living,  not  to 
rear  a  temple  to  the  Muses;  and  from  our  point  of 
view  the  former  is  by  far  the  more  important  ser 
vice.  To  get  at  the  full  worth  of  Emerson,  I  say, 
we  must  appraise  him  for  his  new  and  fundamental 
quality  of  genius,  not  for  his  mere  literary  accom 
plishments,  great  as  these  were. 

If  it  is  replied  that  this  is  just  what  the  lecturer 
did,  I  say  the  word  of  highest  praise,  all  through 
the  discourse,  was  given  to  the  master  of  mere  lit 
erary  form.  There  was  a  tone  of  disparagement 
toward  Emerson  as  a  man  of  letters,  when  there 
should  have  been  generous  approval  of  the  quicken 
ing  and  liberating  spirit  he  brought  to  letters. 

Emerson's  message  is  of  the  highest  importance, 
and  he  renders  it  with  rare  effectiveness  and  charm. 
His  page  is  an  enticement  to  the  aesthetic  sense  of 
the  intellect,  and  a  stimulus  and  tonic  to  the  ethical 
sense  of  the  moral  nature. 

The  essay  makes  no  unit  of  impression,  but  un 
doubtedly  the  personality  of  the  writer  does;  and 
this,  I  think,  largely  makes  up,  in  such  a  writer 
as  Emerson,  for  the  want  of  inclosing  design  to 
which  I  have  referred.  The  design  that  gives  unity 
and  relevancy  to  these  isolated  paragraphs  is  the 
personality  of  Emerson,  his  peculiar  type  and  idi 
osyncrasy.  This  is  the  plan,  the  theme  which  these 
musical  periods  illustrate.  The  artist,  says  Goethe, 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   149 

"make  what  contortions  he  will,  can  only  bring  to 
light  his  own  individuality."  Of  men  of  the  Emer 
sonian  and  Words worthian  stamp,  this  is  preemi 
nently  true;  and  it  is  this  which  finally  interests  us 
and  gives  the  totality  of  impression  in  their  works. 
The  flavor  of  character  is  over  all;  the  features  of 
the  man  are  stamped  upon  every  word.  Prom  this 
point  of  view,  much  faultless  and  forcible  writing 
—  the  writer  always  under  the  sway  of  Arnold's  law 
of  pure  and  flawless  workmanship  —  is  destitute  of 
intrinsic  style,  because  it  is  destitute  of  individual 
ity.  In  the  case  of  Emerson,  the  only  new  thing  in 
the  book  is  the  man ;  this  is  the  surprising  discov 
ery,  but  this  makes  all  things  new;  we  see  the 
world  through  a  new  personal  medium. 

Everything  Emerson  wrote  belongs  to  literature, 
and  to  literature  in  its  highest  and  most  serious 
mood.  If  'not  a  great  man  of  letters,  then  a  great 
man  speaking  through  letters,  and  delivering  him 
self  with  a  charm  and  a  dignity  few  have  equaled. 
We  cannot  deny  him  literary  honors,  though  we 
honor  him  for  much  more  than  his  literary  accom 
plishments.  No  more  could  a  bird  fly  without 
wings  than  could  Emerson's  thought  have  reached 
and  moved  Arnold,  in  his  early  Oxford  days,  with 
out  rare  qualities  of  literary  style. 

All  Emerson's  aspirations  were  toward  greatness 
of  character,  greatness  of  wisdom,  nobility  of  soul. 
Hence,  in  all  his  writings  and  speakings,  the  great 
man  shines  through  and  eclipses  the  great  writer. 
The  flavor  of  character  is  stronger  than  the  flavor  of 
letters,  and  dominates  the  pages. 


150  INDOOR   STUDIES 

If  he  is  "the  friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would 
live  in  the  spirit,"  he  is  equally  the  friend  and 
aider  of  those  who  would  found  a  great  state,  a 
great  literature,  a  great  art.  The  spirit  he  brought 
to  his  task,  and  which  he  displayed  through  his  life, 
is  a  stimulus  and  a  support  to  all  noble  endeavor, 
of  whatever  kind  or  in  whatever  field. 

Yet  it  is  to  be  said  that  neither  Emerson  nor 
Carlyle  was  a  typical  literary  man.  They  both  had 
too  great  moral  vehemence,  or  bent,  to  be  the  doc 
tors  and  professors  of  mere  literature  for  and  of 
itself.  They  both  belong  to  that  class  of  writers 
who  are  not  so  much  critics  of  life  as  feeders  and 
reinforcers  of  life;  who  gather  in  from  wide-lying 
realms,  not  always  with  nice  judgment  or  wise  selec 
tion,  but  always  with  bold,  strong  hands,  much  that 
nourishes  and  fertilizes  the  very  roots  of  the  'tree 
Igdrasil.  Such  writers  were  Emerson  and  Carlyle. 
Such  a  writer  is  not  Mr.  Arnold,  though  his  func 
tion  as  pruner  and  cultivator  of  the  tree  is  scarcely 
less  in  importance. 

Disinterestedness  is  to  be  demanded  of  the  critic, 
but  the  creative  imagination  may  have  free  play 
within  the  limits  of  a  strong  intellectual  bias.  The 
charm  and  value  of  Darwin  is  his  disinterestedness, 
but  Darwin  is  a  critic  of  the  scheme  of  creation:  he 
is  interested  only  in  finding  and  stating  the  largest 
truth,  in  outlining  the  theory  that  will  cover  the 
greatest  multitude  and  the  widest  diversity  of  facts. 
But  the  charm  and  value  of  such  a  writer  as  Abram 
Cowley,  or  Mr.  Ruskin,  or  our  Thoreau,  is  largely 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   151 

given  by  a  peculiar  moral  and  mental  bias.  It  is 
Thoreau's  stoicism  and  vehement  partiality  to  nature 
-that  gives  his  page  such  a  fillip  and  genial  provoca 
tion.  And  what  would  Mr.  Kuskin  be  without  his 
delightful  onesidedness  and  bright  unreasonableness  ? 

Few  men  eminent  in  literature  have  been  free 
from  some  sort  of  bias.  Arnold  himself  has  the 
academic  bias.  There  is  in  him  a  slight  collegiate 
contemptuousness  and  aloofness  which  stands  a  little 
in  the  way  of  his  doing  full  justice,  say,  to  the 
nonconformist,  and  to  the  bereaved  mortal  who 
wants  to  marry  his  deceased  wife's  sister,  and  in 
the  way  of  his  full  acceptance  by  his  countrymen, 
to  which  he  is  justly  entitled.  Was  he  not  also 
just  a  little  interested  in  giving  our  pride  in  Emer 
son  a  fall,  at  least  a  shaking  up  ?  Milton  is  biased 
by  his  Puritanism;  his  "Paradise  Lost"  is  the 
pageant  or  drama  of  the  Puritan  theology;  but  he 
is  undoubtedly  best  as  a  poet  when  he  forgets  his 
Puritanism.  Wordsworth  has  the  didactic  bias; 
his  steed  of  empyrean  is  yoked  with  another  of 
much  commoner  clay.  Carlyle's  bias  is  an  over 
weening  partiality  for  heroes;  he  cuts  all  his  cloth 
to  this  one  pattern.  Among  our  own  writers,  Bry 
ant,  Longfellow,  Irving,  have  little  or  no  bias; 
they  are  disinterested  witnesses,  but  they  are  not 
men  of  the  first  order.  Our  younger  corps  of  writers 
are  free  from  bias,  which  is  less  a  merit  than  their 
want  of  earnestness  is  a  defect. 

Arnold's  view  of  Emerson  as  a  poet  is  not  en 
tirely  new,  though  perhaps  it  has  never  before  been 


152  INDOOR   STUDIES 

set  forth  in  quite  so  telling  and  authoritative  a 
form.  The  British  literary  journals  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  saying  for  years,  whenever  the  subject 
was  up,  that  Emerson  was  not  a  poet.  An  able 
London  critic  likened  him  to  a  Druid  who  wanders 
among  the  bards,  and  smites  the  harp  with  even 
more  than  bardic  stress.  And  a  poet  on  the  usual 
terms  we  must  admit  Emerson  was  not.  He  truly 
had  a  druidical  cast.  His  song  is  an  incantation. 
Not  a  minstrel  at  the  feast  of  life  is  he,  but  a 
chanter  of  runes  at  life's  shrine.  Arnold  gave  us 
the  worst  that  could  be  said  of  Emerson  as  a  poet, 
namely,  that  he  lacked  concrete  ness,  sensuousness, 
and  passion.  Perhaps  the  best  that  can  be  said  of 
him  as  a  poet  is  that,  notwithstanding  these  defi 
ciencies,  there  is  usually  a  poetic  stress  in  his  verse, 
a  burden  and  an  intensity  of  poetic  appeal,  that 
would  be  hard  to  match  in  any  other  poet.  He 
had  the  eye  and  ear  of  the  poet  preternaturally 
sharpened,  but  lacked  the  full  poetic  utterance.  It 
would  seem  as  if  he  besieged  the  Muses  with  all 
the  more  seriousness  and  eloquence  because  of  the 
gifts  that  had  been  denied  him.  His  verse  is  full 
of  disembodied  poetic  values,  of  "melody  born  of 
melody.'7  Compared  with  the  other  poets,  he  is 
like  an  essence  compared  to  fruits  or  flowers.  He 
pierced  the  symbol,  he  discarded  the  corporeal;  his 
science  savors  of  magic,  his  power  of  some. mysteri 
ous  occult  force.  Yet  to  say  he  is  not  a  true  poet 
implies  too  much;  he  does  not  stop  short  of  the 
achievements  of  other  poets,  but  goes  beyond  them. 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   153 

He  would  get  rid  of  the  bulk,  the  mass,  and  save 
the  poetry;  get  rid  of  the  concrete  and  catch  the 
,ideal ;  in  other  words,  turn  your  mountain  of  carbon 
into  diamonds. 

As  a  rule,  the  qualities  we  miss  from  his  verse 
he  did  not  aim  to  put  there;  he  did  not  himself 
value  them  in  poetry.  He  knew  the  classic  models 
were  not  for  him.  He  valued  only  the  memorable 
passages,  the  lightning  strokes  of  genius,  the  line 

that 

"Overleapt  the  horizon's  edge," 
and 

"  Searched  with  Apollo's  privilege." 

He  hung  his  verses  in  the  wind :  — 

"  All  were  winnowed  through  and  through, 
Five  lines  lasted  sound  and  true; 
Five  were  smelted  in  a  pot 
Than  the  South  more  fierce  and  hot; 
These  the  siroc  could  not  melt, 
Fire  their  fiercer  flaming  felt, 
And  the  meaning  was  more  white 
Than  July's  meridian  light. 
Sunshine  cannot  bleach  the  snow, 
Nor  time  unmake  what  poets  know. 
Have  you  eyes  to  find  the  five 
Which  five  hundred  did  survive  ?" 

This  was  Emerson's  method,  —  not  to  write  a 
perfect  poem,  a  poem  that  should  be  an  inevitable 
whole,  as  Arnold  would  have  him,  but  to  write  the 
perfect  line,  to  set  the  imagination  ablaze  with  a 
single  verse,  leaving  the  effects  of  form,  of  propor 
tion,  to  be  achieved  by  those  who  were  equipped 
for  it.  His  poetry  is  undoubtedly  best  when  it  is 
most  concrete,  as  in  the  "  Humble-Bee, "  "Rhodora," 


154  INDOOR   STUDIES 

"Sea-Shore,"  "The  Snow-Storm,"  " The  Problem, " 
"The  Titmouse,"  and  like  poems,  and  poorest  in 
"Woodnotes,"  "The  Celestial  Love,"  etc.  "Un 
less  the  heart  is  shook,"  says  Landor,  "the  gods 
thunder  and  stride  in  vain ; "  and  the  heart  is  sel 
dom  shook  by  Emerson's  poetry.  It  has  heat,  but 
it  is  not  that  of  English  poetical  literature,  the  heat 
of  the  blood,  of  the  affections,  the  emotions;  but 
arises  from  the  ecstasy  of  contemplation  of  the  uni 
versality  of  the  moral  law. 

It  is  hard  to  reconcile  Arnold's  criticism  of 
Emerson's  poetry  with  what  many  of  us  feel  to  be 
its  beauty  and  value.  It  is  irritating  to  Emerso- 
nians  to  be  compelled  to  admit  that  his  strain  lacks 
any  essential  quality.  I  confess  that  I  would  rather 
have  his  poetry  than  all  Milton,  Cowper,  Gray, 
Byron,  and  many  others  ever  wrote,  but  doubtless 
in  such  a  confession  I  am  only  pointing  out  my 
own  limitations  as  a  reader  of  the  poets.  This  is 
the  personal  estimate  which  Arnold  condemns.  I 
see  the  grounds  upon  which  Milton's  poetry  is  con 
sidered  greater,  but  I  do  not  care  for  it,  all  the 
same.  Emerson's  poetry  does  not  dilate  me,  as 
Wordsworth's  does,  because  the  human  emotional 
element  in  it  is  weaker.  It  has  not  the  same  touch 
of  nature  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin,  the  touch 
of  commonalty  heightened  and  vivified. 

Whether  we  know  it  or  not,  we  doubtless  love 
Emerson  all  the  more  because  he  is  not  a  legitimate 
poet  or  the  usual  man  of  letters,  but  an  exceptional 
one.  We  do  not  love  Shakespeare  in  the  same 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   155 

way,  because  he  is  of  no  special  and  peculiar  service 
to  us  as  men  and  moral  beings;  he  is  not  dear  to 
any  man,  but  generously  beloved  by  all  men.  He 
is  in  the  midst  of  the  great  currents  of  life  and 
nature.  JT  is  the  universal  air,  the  universal  water, 
we  get  here.  But  Emerson  stands  apart. 

We  go  to  him  as  we  go  to  a  fountain  to  drink, 
and  to  a  fountain  of  peculiar  virtues,  a  fountain  that 
contains  iron,  or  sulphur,  or  some  other  medicinal 
property.  Hence,  while  to  criticism  Emerson  is 
less  than  Gray  or  Milton,  to  us  who  need  his  moral 
and  spiritual  tonics  he  is  more,  vastly  more.  We 
live  in  a  sick  age,  and  he  has  saved  the  lives  of 
many  of  us.  So  precious  has  his  service  been,  so 
far  beyond  the  reach  of  mere  literature,  that  we  are 
irritated,  I  say,  when  we  hear  the  regular  literary 
men  placed  above  him.  When  I  think  of  Emerson, 
I  think  of  him  as  a  man,  not  as  an  author;  it  was 
his  rare  and  charming  personality  that  healed  us 
and  kindled  our  love.  When  he  died,  it  was  not 
as  a  sweet  singer,  like  Longfellow,  who  had  gone 
silent;  but  something  precious  and  paternal  had 
departed  out  of  nature ;  a  voice  of  hope  and  courage, 
and  inspiration  to  all  noble  endeavor,  had  ceased  to 
speak. 

As  a  prose-writer,  there  is  one  note  in  Emerson 
which  we  get  with  the  same  emphasis  and  clearness 
in  no  other  writer.  I  mean  the  heroic  note,  the 
note  of  manhood  rising  above  the  accidents  of  for 
tune  and  the  tyranny  of  circumstances,  the  inspira 
tion  of  courage  and  self-reliance.  It  is  in  Carlyle, 


156  INDOOR   STUDIES 

but  is  often  touched  by  his  ill- humor.  When 
Teufelsdrb'ckh  fulminates  his  "Everlasting  No"  in 
"Sartor,"  it  rings  out  like  a  thunder-peal;  this  is 
the  wrath  and  invincibility  of  the  hero  at  bay.  If, 
in  Emerson's  earlier  essays,  this  note  seems  to  us 
now  a  little  too  pronounced,  savoring  just  a  little 
of  "tall  talk,"  it  did  not  seem  so  when  we  first  read 
them,  but  was  as  clear,  and  frank,  and  sweet  as  the 
note  of  a  bugle.  Carlyle  once  defined  poetry  as  the 
"heroic  of  speech,"  a  definition  that  probably  would 
not  suit  Mr.  Arnold,  but  which  describes  much  of 
Emerson's  verse,  and  many  of  those  brave  sentences 
in  his  essays. 

If  in  Addison  the  note  is  that  of  genial  urbanity, 
in  Franklin  that  of  worldly  prudence  ("There  is  a 
flower  of  religion,  a  flower  of  honor,  a  flower  of 
chivalry,"  says  Sainte-Beuve,  "which  must  not  be 
required  from  Franklin "),  in  Bacon  of  large  wis 
dom,  in  Pope  of  polished  common-sense,  in  Arnold 
himself  the  classical  note  or  note  of  perfection,  in 
Emerson  we  come  at  once  upon  the  chivalrous,  heroic 
attitude  and  temper.  No  scorn,  no  contempt,  no 
defiance,  but  a  bright  and  cheerful  confronting  of 
immense  odds.  In  other  writers  there  are  words  of 
prudence,  words  of  enlightenment,  words  of  grave 
counsel,  words  that  divide  one  thing  from  another 
like  a  blade,  words  of  sympathy  and  love;  but  in 
Emerson  more  than  in  any  other  there  are  words 
that  are  like  banners  leading  to  victory,  symbolical, 
inspiring,  rallying,  seconding,  and  pointing  the  way 
to  your  best  endeavor.  "Self-trust,"  he  says,  "is 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE   157 

the  essence  of  heroism, "  and  this  martial  note  pulses 
through  all  his  utterances.  It  is  found  in  others, 
too,  but  it  is  the  leading  note  in  him.  In  others 
it  is  often  the  inspiration  of  conduct;  in  him  it  is 
the  inspiration  of  morals. 

The  quality  I  refer  to  is  in  this  passage  from 
Marcus  Aurelius :  — 

"  Suppose  that  men  kill  thee  —  cut  thee  in  pieces 
—  curse  thee.  What,  then,  can  these  things  do  to 
prevent  thy  mind  from  remaining  pure,  wise,  sober, 
just?" 

It  is  in  these  lines  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
"  Sea  Voyage, "  quoted  by  Emerson  himself :  — 

"Julietta.    Why,  slaves,  't  is  in  our  power  to  hang  ye. 
"  Master.     Very  likely.    'T  is  in  our  power,  then,  to  be  hanged, 
and  scorn  ye." 

It  is  the  salt  of  this  passage  of  another  poet :  — 

"How  beggarly  appear  arguments  before  a  defiant  deed! 
How  the  fioridness  of  the  materials  of  cities  shrivels  before 
a  man's  or  woman's  look!  " 

It  is  in  the  reply  of  the  Spartan  soldier  who, 
when  the  threatening  Persian  told  him  their  arrows 
would  darken  the  sun,  answered:  "Very  well,  then; 
we  will  fight  in  the  shade."  Emerson  sounds  the 
same  note  throughout  his  essays,  takes  the  same 
attitude  toward  circumstances,  toward  conventions, 
toward  tradition,  toward  theological  dogma,  toward 
everything  that  would  hamper  and  limit  him.  It 
shines  in  his  famous  boast:  — 

"Give  me  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make  the 
pomp  of  emperors  ridiculous." 


158  INDOOR   STUDIES 

There  is  a  glint  of  it  in  this  passage,  which  might 
have  been  written  to  comfort  John  Brown,  or  reas 
sure  a  certain  much-abused  poet,  had  it  not  been 
before  the  fact,  a  prophecy  and  not  a  counsel :  — 

"  Adhere  to  your  own  act,  and  congratulate  your 
self  if  you  have  done  something  strange  and  extrav 
agant,  and  broken  the  monotony  of  a  decorous  age." 

Here  it  takes  another  key :  — 

"If  we  dilate  on  beholding  the  Greek  energy, 
the  Roman  pride,  it  is  that  we  are  already  domes 
ticating  the  same  sentiment.  Let  us  find  room  for 
this  great  guest  in  our  small  houses.  The  first 
step  of  worthiness  will  be  to  disabuse  us  of  our 
superstitious  associations  with  places  and  times, 
with  number  and  size.  Why  should  these  words, 
Athenian,  Roman,  Asia,  and  England,  so  tingle  in 
the  ear?  Where  the  heart  is,  there  the  muses, 
there  the  gods  sojourn,  and  not  in  any  geography 
of  fame.  Massachusetts,  Connecticut  River,  and 
Boston  Bay  you  think  paltry  places,  and  the  ear 
loves  names  of  foreign  and  classical  topography. 
But  here  we  are;  and,  if  we  will  tarry  a  little, 
we  may  come  to  learn  that  here  is  best.  See  to  it 
only  that  thyself  is  here,  and  art  and  nature,  hope 
and  fate,  friends,  angels,  and  the  Supreme  Being 
shall  not  be  absent  from  the  chamber  where  thou 
sittest." 

Half  the  essays  are  to  this  tune.  "Books,"  he 
said,  "are  for  nothing  but  to  inspire;"  and  in  writ 
ing  his  own  he  had  but  one  purpose  in  view :  to  be, 
as  Arnold  so  well  says,  "the  friend  and  aider  of 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE  159 

those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit, "  —  in  the  spirit 
of  truth,  in  the  spirit  of  virtue,  in  the  spirit  of 
heroism. 

The  lecturer  was  unfortunate  in  what  he  said  of 
Emerson's  "Titmouse."  We  do  not  learn,  he  said, 
what  his  titmouse  did  for  him;  we  are  reduced  to 
guessing;  he  was  not  poet  enough  to  tell  us.  But 
the  bird  sounded  the  heroic  note  to  the  poet,  and 
inspired  him  with  courage  and  hope  when  he  was 
about  to  succumb  to  the  cold :  — 

"  Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath, 
Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death; 

Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine ; 
Ashes  and  jet  all  hues  outshine. 

I  think  old  Caesar  must  have  heard 
In  northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 
And,  echoed  in  some  frosty  wold, 
Borrowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold. 

Paean!  Veni,  vidi,  vici." 

It  is  one  of  Emerson's  most  characteristic  poems. 
Burns,  the  speaker  said,  would  have  handled  the 
subject  differently,  thinking  probably  of  Burns 's 
"Mouse."  Certainly  he  would.  He  was  pitched 
in  a  different  key.  The  misfortunes  of  his  mouse 
touched  his  sympathy  and  love,  appealed  to  his 
human  tenderness,  and  called  up  the  vision  of  his 
own  hard  lot.  Each  poet  gives  us  the  sentiment 
proper  to  him;  the  heroic  from  Emerson,  the  hu 
man  from  Burns.  The  lecturer  was  right  in  saying 
that  the  secret  of  Emerson's  influence  is  his  temper, 
but  it  is  not  merely  his  good  temper,  his  cheer- 


160  INDOOR    STUDIES 

fulness,  hopefulness,  benevolence,  etc.  These  he 
shared  with  the  mass  of  h;s  countrymen.  The 
American  temperament  is  sanguine  and  turns  con 
fidently  to  the  future.  But  it  is  again  his  heroic 
temper,  his  faith  in  "the  ideal  tendencies,'7  in  the 
value  of  personal  force  and  character,  in  the  gran 
deur  of  the  present  moment,  the  present  opportu 
nity;  a  temper  he  shares  with  but  few,  but  shares, 
say,  with  his  friend  and  master,  Carlyle :  — 

" One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts;  " 
and  more  especially  in  Carlyle 's  case, 

"  Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield." 

It  has  long  been  clear  to  me  that  Carlyle  and 
Emerson  were  in  many  important  respects  closely 
akin,  notwithstanding  the  wrath  and  melancholy  of 
the  one,  and  the  serenity  and  hopefulness  of  the 
other.  Their  main  ground  of  kinship  is  the  heroic 
sentiment  which  they  share  in  common.  Their 
effects  upon  the  mind  are  essentially  the  same :  both 
have  the  "tart  cathartic  virtue  "  of  courage  and  self- 
reliance;  both  nourish  character  and  spur  genius. 
Carlyle  does  not  communicate  the  gloom  he  feels; 
't  is  the  most  tonic  despair  to  be  found  in  literature. 
There  is  a  kind  of  felicity  in  it.  For  one  thing,  it 
sprang  from  no  personal  disappointment  or  selfish 
ness.  It  always  has  the  heroic  tinge.  In  a  letter 
to  Emerson  he  refers  to  it  as  a  "kind  of  imperial 
sorrow  that  is  almost  like  felicity,  —  so  completely 
and  composedly  wretched,  one  is  equal  to  the  very 
gods."  His  wretchedness  was  a  kind  of  sorrow; 


ARNOLD'S  VIEW  OF  EMERSON  AND  CARLYLE  161 

that  is  always  its  saving  feature.  One's  unhappi- 
ness  may  be  selfish  and  ignoble,  or  it  may  be  noble 
and  inspiring;  all  depends  upon  the  sentiment  from 
which  it  springs.  Men  selfishly  wretched  never 
laugh,  except  in  derision.  Carlyle  was  a  man  of 
sorrow,  and  sorrow  springs  from  sympathy  and  love. 
A  sorrowing  man  is  a  loving  man.  His  is  the  Old 
World  sorrow,  the  inheritance  of  ages,  the  grief  of 
justice  and  retribution  over  the  accumulated  wrongs 
and  sufferings  of  centuries.  In  him  it  became  a 
kind  of  poetic  sentiment,  a  fertile  leaf-mould  that 
issued  at  last  in  positive  verdure  and  bloom.  Not 
happiness,  but  a  kind  of  blessedness,  he  aspired  to, 
the  satisfaction  of  suffering  in  well-doing.  How 
he  loves  all  the  battling,  struggling,  heroic  souls! 
Whenever  he  comes  upon  one  such  in  his  histories, 
no  matter  how  obscure,  he  turns  aside  to  lay  a 
wreath  upon  his  tomb.  It  was  his  own  glory  that 
he  never  flinched;  that  his  despair  only  nerved  him 
to  work  the  harder;  the  thicker  the  gloom,  the 
more  his  light  shone.  Hope  and  heart  never  left 
him;  they  were  of  the  unquenchable,  the  inextin 
guishable  kind,  like  those  ragged  jets  of  flame  the 
traveler  used  to  see  above  the  oil  wells  or  gas  wells 
in  Pennsylvania,  which  the  wildest  tempest  could 
not  blow  out,  so  tenaciously  and  desperately  did  the 
flame  cling. 

Carlyle's  lamentations  are  loud;  a  little  of  his 
own  doctrine  of  silence  would  have  come  in  well 
here.  What  he  said  of  Voltaire  the  world  is  bound 
to  say  of  himself:  "Truly  M.  de  Voltaire  had  a 


162  INDOOR   STUDIES 

talent  for  speech,  but  lamentably  wanted  that  of 
silence. "  But  he  worked  like  a  Hercules.  He 
does  not  charm  the  demons  away  like  Emerson,  but 
he  defies  them.  Emerson  wins  them  over,  but  Car- 
lyle  explodes  them  with  their  own  sulphur.  Each 
man  rendered  his  age  and  country  a  signal  service, 
and  to  rule  them  out  of  the  company  of  the  great 
authors  is  to  rob  that  company  of  the  two  names 
of  this  century.it  can  least  afford  to  lose. 


YI 

GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK 

T  WAS  moved  to  take  down  my  White's  "Sel- 
-*-  borne  "  and  examine  it  again  for  the  source  of 
the  delight  I  had  had  in  it,  on  hearing  a  distin 
guished  literary  man,  the  late  Richard  Grant  White, 
say  it  was  a  book  he  could  not  read  with  any  degree 
of  pleasure:  to  him  its  pages  were  a  bare  record  of 
uninteresting  facts.  It  was  not  because  he  felt  no 
interest  in  or  sympathy  with  the  kind  of  literature 
to  which  White's  "  Selborne  "  belongs,  for  he  con 
fessed  a  liking  for  certain  other  writers  in  this  field, 
but  because  both  White's  matter  and  manner  were 
void  of  interest  to  him.  The  book  was  doubtless 
pitched  in  too  low  a  key  for  him:  it  was  tame  and 
commonplace,  like  the  country  itself.  There  is 
indeed  something  a  little  disappointing  in  White's 
book  when  one  takes  it  up  for  the  first  time,  with 
his  mind  full  of  its  great  fame.  It  is  not  seasoned 
quite  up  to  the  modern  taste.  White  is  content 
that  the  facts  of  nature  should  be  just  what  they 
are;  his  concern  alone  is  to  see  them  just  as  they 
are.  When  I  myself  first  looked  into  his  book, 
many  years  ago,  I  found  nothing  in  it  that  attracted 
me,  and  so  passed  it  by.  Much  more  recently  it 


164  INDOOR   STUDIES 

fell  into  my  hands,  when  I  felt  its  charm  and  value 
at  once.  Indeed,  the  work  of  the  Selborne  natu 
ralist  belongs  to  the  class  of  books  that  one  must 
discover  for  himself:  their  quality  is  not  patent;  he 
that  runs  may  not  read  them.  Like  certain  fruits, 
they  leave  a  lingering  flavor  in  the  mouth  that  is 
much  better  than  the  first  taste  promised.  In  some 
congenial  mood  or  lucky  moment  you  find  them  out. 
I  remember  I  had  the  little  book  of  Essays  of  Abra 
ham  Cowley  some  years  before  I  succeeded  in  read 
ing  it.  One  summer  day  I  chanced  to  take  it  with 
me  on  my  walk  to  the  woods,  and  at  the  foot  of  a 
waterfall  in  a  very  secluded  place  I  suddenly  discov 
ered  that  the  essays  had  a  quality  and  a  charm  that 
I  had  never  suspected  they  possessed.  The  book 
was  the  fruit  of  a  certain  privacy  and  seclusion  from 
the  world,  and  it  required  in  the  reader  the  frame 
of  mind  which  these  beget  to  enter  fully  into  it.  I 
suspect  that  some  such  auspicious  moment  or  prepa 
ration  is  necessary  to  a  full  appreciation  of  White's 
letters.  It  is  necessary,  in  the  first  place,  that  you 
be  a  born  countryman,  capable  of  a  certain  fellow 
ship  and  intimacy  with  your  brute  neighbors  and 
with  the  various  shows  of  rural  nature.  Then  a 
quiet,  even  tenor  of  life,  such  as  can  be  had  only 
in  the  country,  is  also  necessary,  — a  way  of  life 
that  goes  slow,  and  lingers  upon  the  impression  of 
the  moment,  and  returns  to  it  again  and  again,  that 
makes  much  of  little  things,  and  is  closely  observant 
of  the  face  of  the  day  and  of  the  landscape,  and 
into  which  the  disturbing  elements  of  the  great 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK  165 

hurly-burly  outside  world  do  not  enter.  Being  thus 
surrounded  and  thus  inclined,  in  the  fall,  when  you 
"first  build  a  fire  in  your  grate  and  begin  to  feel 
again  like  browsing  along  the  old  paths,  open 
White's  "Selborne,"  and  read  a  chapter  here  and 
there,  and  bend  your  ear  attentively  to  his  quiet, 
cheerful,  but  earnest  talk.  Each  letter  shall  seem 
addressed  to  you  personally  with  news  from  the 
fields  and  byways  you  so  lately  visited.  The  pas 
toral  quiet  and  sweetness  and  harmony  of  the  Eng 
lish  landscape  pervade  them  all,  with  just  that  tinge 
of  reminiscence,  that  flavor  of  human  sympathy  and 
human  absorption,  that  English  fields  suggest.  The 
style  is  like  a  rich,  tender  sward,  simple  and  unob 
trusive,  with  scarcely  a  flower  of  rhetoric  anywhere, 
but  very  pleasing  and  effective  and  entirely  ade 
quate:  it  is  nature  and  art  perfectly  married,  each 
seconding  the  other.  Its  brevity,  its  directness,  its 
simplicity,  its  dealings  with  familiar  and  near-at- 
hand  objects,  shows,  occurrences,  etc.,  make  it  a 
book  which  never  sates  and  never  tires  the  reader. 
It  is  little  more  than  an  appetizer,  but  as  such  it 
takes  high  rank.  As  a  stimulus  and  spur  to  the 
study  of  natural  history,  it  has  no  doubt  had  more 
influence  than  any  other  work  of  the  century.  Its 
merits  in  this  direction  alone  would  perhaps  account 
for  its  success.  But,  while  it  has  other  merits,  and 
great  ones,  it  has  been  a  fortunate  book:  it  has  had 
little  competition;  it  has  had  the  wind  always  with 
it,  so  to  speak.  It  furnished  a  staple  the  demand 
for  which  was  always  steady  and  the  supply  small. 


166  INDOOR   STUDIES 

There  was  no  other  book  of  any  merit  like  it  for 
nearly  a  hundred  years.  It  contains  a  great  deal 
of  good  natural  history  and  acute  observations  upon 
various  rural  subjects,  put  up  in  a  cheap  and  port 
able  form.  The  contemporary  works  of  Pennant 
are  voluminous  and  costly,  —  heavy  sailing-craft 
only  that  come  to  port  in  the  great  libraries,  while 
this  is  a  nimble,  light- draught  vessel  that  has  found 
a  harbor  on  nearly  every  man's  book- shell 

Hence  we  say  that  while  it  is  not  one  of  the 
great  books,  it  is  one  of  the  very  real  books,  one  of 
the  very  live  books,  and  has  met  and  supplied  a 
tangible  want  in  the  English  reading  world.  It 
does  not  appeal  to  a  large  class  of  readers,  and  yet 
no  library  is  complete  without  it.  It  is  valuable  as 
a  storehouse  of  facts,  it  is  valuable  as  a  treatise  on 
the  art  of  observing  things,  and  it  is  valuable  for 
its  sweetness  and  charm  of  style. 

What  an  equable,  harmonious,  and  gracious  spirit 
and  temper  pervade  the  book,  and  withal  what  an 
air  of  summer-day  leisure  and  sequestration!  The 
great  world  is  far  off.  Its  sound  is  less  than  the 
distant  rumble  of  a  wagon  heard  in  the  midst  of 
the  fields.  The  privacy  and  preoccupation  of  the 
author  are  like  those  of  the  bird  building  her  nest, 
or  of  the  bee  gathering  her  sweets.  He  was  eager 
for  news,  but  it  was  only  for  news  from  the  earth 
and  the  air,  or  from  the  dumb  life  about  him.  Yet 
it  would  not  be  safe  to  affirm  that  White  was  not 
an  interested  and  sympathetic  spectator  of  the 
events  of  his  time,  like  other  men,  for  doubtless  he 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK  167 

was.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  was  anything 
like  the  petulant  recluse  and  man-hater  that  our 
own  Thoreau  at  times  was.  He  had  the  wide, 
generous  eye,  and  his  love  of  nature  was  not  in  any 
sense  a  running  away  from  the  world.  But  he  was 
not  the  historian  of  his  time,  nor  even  of  his  own 
moods  and  fancies,  but  the  chronicler  of  the  unob 
served  life  of  nature  about  him;  and  as  such  he 
attained  a  pure  result.  And  this  is  one  secret  of 
his  keeping  qualities,  —  a  pure  result,  untainted 
and  unrefracted  by  any  peculiarity  of  the  medium 
through  which  it  came.  Mankind,  in  the  long  run, 
cares  less  what  you  think,  unless  your  plummet 
goes  very  deep,  than  what  you  feel,  and  are,  and 
experience.  White  valued  his  facts  for  what  they 
were,  not  for  any  double  meaning  he  could  wring 
out  of  them,  or  any  airy  structure  he  could  build 
upon  them.  He  loved  the  bird,  or  the  animal,  or 
a  walk  in  the  fields,  directly  and  for  its  own  sake, 
and  his  book  makes  a  distinct  impression,  like  any 
of  the  creatures  or  any  of  the  phases  and  products 
of  nature  of  which  it  treats.  The  perennial  and 
antiseptic  quality  in  literature  or  art  is  something  as 
simple  as  water  or  milk,  or  as  the  oxygen  of  the 
air:  it  does  not  come  from  afar;  it  is  more  common 
and  familiar  than  we  are  apt  to  think.  One  may 
not  say  dogmatically  that  it  is  this  or  that,  but  I 
think  it  safe  to  say  that  it  is  inseparable  from  per 
fect  seriousness  and  singleness  of  purpose.  This 
singleness  and  seriousness  of  purpose  White  had. 
He  is  as  honest  and  direct  as  the  rain  or  the  wind. 


168  INDOOR    STUDIES 

No  levity,  no  seeing  double,  no  intellectual  as 
tigmatism,  no  make-believe,  no  spinning  of  webs, 
hardly  any  conscious  humor,  no  o'erripe  sentiment, 
but  a  steady  effort  and  purpose  to  see  and  record 
the  simple  fact.  It  is  not  more  what  he  has  put 
into  his  book  than  what  he  has  kept  out  of  it  that 
has  made  it  keep  a  hundred  years.  Carlyle  says  of 
a  certain  celebrated  Frenchman,  that  he  was  always 
at  the  top  less  by  power  of  swimming  than  by  light 
ness  in  floating.  In  no  disparaging  sense  is  this 
true  of  White's  "Selborne."  It  has  an  inherent 
principle  of  buoyancy  like  a  bird.  It  is  a  light 
book  in  the  best  sense.  It  makes  no  severe  de 
mand  upon  the  reader's  time  or  attention.  It  is  as 
easy  reading  as  the  letters  of  a  friend.  The  episto 
lary  form  of  the  chapters  —  a  form  that  lends  itself 
so  readily,  almost  inevitably,  to  directness  and  sim 
plicity  of  statement  —  is  no  doubt  one  secret  of  the 
book's  charm.  Dullness  in  private  letters  is  per 
haps  rarer  than  dullness  in  any  other  species  of 
writing.  Plenty  of  persons  write  fresh  and  enter 
taining  letters  who  are  lead  itself  in  the  essay  or 
the  sermon.  White  is  less  pleasing  in  his  "  Obser 
vations  of  Nature"  than  in  his  letters.  It  is  a 
great  matter  to  have  a  fair  and  definite  mark  to  aim 
at,  and  a  good  reason  for  obtruding  the  personal 
pronoun.  White  was  the  type  of  the  true  observer. 
He  had  the  alert,  open  sense,  the  genial,  hospitable 
habit  of  mind,  the  healthful  objectivity  and  recep 
tivity,  that  at  once  placed  him  in  right  relations 
with  outward  nature.  He  had  great  curiosity  and 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK  169 

genuine  enthusiasm,  and  permitted  no  moods,  or 
humors,  or  bias,  or  what  not,  to  stand  between  him 
and  what  he.  saw.  His  mind  transmitted  clearly; 
the  image  is  exact.  To  be  a  good  observer  is  not 
merely  to  see  things:  it  is  to  see  them  in  their  rela 
tions  and  bearings;  it  is  to  separate  one  thing  from 
another,  the  wheat  from  the  chaff,  the  significant 
from  the  unimportant.  The  sagacity  of  the  hound 
is  in  his  scent,  the  skill  of  the  musician  seems  in 
his  hands  and  fingers,  the  mind  of  the  observer  is 
in  his  eye.  To  untrained  perceptions  the  color  of 
the  clouds  is  this  or  that,  gray,  or  blue,  or  drab; 
the  artist  picks  out  the  primary  tints,  the  separate 
colors  of  which  this  hue  is  composed.  In  like 
manner  the  true  observer,  the  true  eye-poet  or  an 
alyst,  disentangles  the  facts  and  threads  of  meaning 
of  the  dumb  life  about  him,  and  gives  you  a  dis 
tinct  impression.  It  is  true  that  White  made  a 
business  of  observing.  For  more  than  forty  years 
he  went  out  daily  to  take  note  of  what  was  going 
on  in  his  open-air  parish.  He  knew  his  ground  by 
heart,  and  every  new  move  at  once  caught  his  eye. 
If  a  new  bird  appeared  upon  the  scene  he  was  sure 
to  be  on  hand  to  take  note  of  it;  or  if  a  swallow 
lingered  a  little  later  than  usual,  or  came  a  day  or 
two  earlier,  the  fact  did  not  escape  him.  The  pine 
grosbeak  is  a  rare  visitant  in  England,  as  it  is  in 
the  United  States,  yet  if  one  came  it  was  pretty 
sure  to  report  to  White  at  an  early  day. 

The   hoopoe  is  also  a  rare  bird  there;   but  one 
summer  a  pair  took  up  their  abode  in  an  ornamen- 


170  INDOOR   STUDIES 

tal  piece  of  ground  that  joined  White's  garden. 
One  can  imagine  how  eagerly  he  watched  them. 
"They  used  to  march  about  in  a  stately  manner," 
he  says,  "feeding  in  the  walks  many  times  a  day, 
and  seemed  disposed  to  breed  in  my  outlet,  but  were 
frightened  and  persecuted  by  idle  boys,  who  would 
never  let  them  be  at  rest."  The  grasshopper-lark 
is  one  of  the  shyest  of  British  birds,  and  one  of  the 
most  baffling  to  the  observer.  It  creeps  around 
under  the  thorns  and  bushes  and  in  the  bottom  of 
the  hedge-rows,  like  a  mouse  or  a  weasel.  Its  note 
or  song  was  thought  to  proceed  from  a  grasshopper; 
and  White  says  the  country  people  laugh  when  told 
it  is  a  bird.  But  the  sharp-eyed  curate  could  not 
be  baffled:  he  would  watch  the  bird  till  he  saw  it 
in  the  very  act.  His  eye  was  not  only  quick,  it 
was  patient  and  tenacious,  and  would  not  let  go  till 
it  had  the  secret.  He  saw  the  fern-owl  feed  itself 
while  on  the  wing;  he  saw  swallows  feed  their 
young  in  the  air,  which  few  people  have  perhaps 
ever  seen.  He  timed  the  white  owls  that  nested 
under  the  eaves  of  his  church,  and,  with  watch  in 
hand,  found  that  one  or  the  other  of  them  returned 
about  every  five  minutes  with  food  for  the  young. 
They  did  not  proceed  directly  to  the  nest,  but 
always  perched  upon  the  roof  of  the  chancel  first. 
He  quickly  saw  what  this  was  for:  it  was  to  shift 
the  mouse  from  the  claws  to  the  bill,  that  their  feet 
might  be  free  to  aid  them  in  climbing  to  the  nest. 
His  observation  is  often  of  the  minutest  character. 
"When  redstarts  shake  their  tails,"  he  says,  "they 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK  171 

move  them  horizontally,  as  dogs  do  when  they 
fawn ;  the  tail  of  a  wagtail  when  in  motion  bobs  up 
and  down  like  that  of  a  jaded  horse."  "Most  birds 
drink  sipping  at  intervals;  but  pigeons  take  a  long- 
continued  draught,  like  quadrupeds."  When  he 
saw  the  stilt- plover,  he  observed  at  once  that  it  had 
no  back  toe,  and  must  therefore  be  a  bad  walker. 
"Without  that  steady  prop  to  support  its  steps,  it 
must  be  liable,  in  speculation,  to  perpetual  vacilla 
tions,  and  seldom  able  to  preserve  the  true  centre 
of  gravity."  There  is  a  sly,  humorous  twinkle  in 
this  passage  that  our  author  seldom  indulges  in. 

White's  interest  and  curiosity  in  every  phase  of 
natural  history  were  so  lively  and  his  habit  of  mind 
was  so  frank  and  open  that  much  came  in  his  way 
to  record  that  would  otherwise  have  been  passed 
by.  His  neighbor  had  a  hog  which  he  kept  to  an 
advanced  age,  and  our  curate  writes  to  Mr.  Barring- 
ton  one  of  his  characteristic  letters  about  it.  "The 
natural  term  of  a  hog's  life,"  he  begins,  "is  little 
known,  and  the  reason  is  plain,  —  because  it  is 
neither  profitable  nor  convenient  to  keep  that  tur 
bulent  animal  to  the  full  extent  of  its  time:  how 
ever,  my  neighbor,  a  man  of  substance,  who  had 
no  occasion  to  study  every  little  advantage  to  a 
nicety,  kept  an  half-bred  Bantam  sow,  who  was  as 
thick  as  she  was  long,  and  whose  belly  swept  on 
the  ground,  till  she  was  advanced  to  her  seventeenth 
year,  at  which  period  she  showed  some  tokens  of 
age  by  the  decay  of  her  teeth  and  the  decline  of  her 
fertility."  Two  or  three  of  his  most  charming  let- 


172  INDOOR   STUDIES 

ters  are  devoted  to  the  "  old  family  tortoise. "  What 
a  clear  and  vivid  impression  we  get  of  the  creature ! 
and  what  a  lively  interest  -  we  feel  in  his  stupid 
ways!  "No  part  of  its  behavior,"  says  White, 
"ever  struck  me  more  than  the  extreme  timidity  it 
always  expresses  with  regard  to  rain;  for,  though 
it  has  a  shell  that  would  secure  it  against  the  wheel 
of  a  loaded  cart,  yet  does  it  discover  as  much  solici 
tude  about  rain  as  a  lady  dressed  in  all  her  best 
attire,  shuffling  away  on  the  first  sprinklings  and 
running  its  head  up  in  a  corner."  The  old  tortoise 
begins  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  ground  to  go  into  winter 
quarters  early  in  November.  "It  scrapes  out  the 
ground  with  its  fore-feet,"  says  the  historian,  "and 
throws  it  up  over  its  back  with  its  hind;  but  the 
motion  of  its  legs  is  ridiculously  slow,  little  exceed 
ing  the  hour-hand  of  a  clock."  "This  creature  not 
only  goes  under  the  earth  from  the  middle  of  No 
vember  to  the  middle  of  April,  but  sleeps  great  part 
of  the  summer;  for  it  goes  to  bed  in  the  longest 
days  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  often  does  not 
stir  in  the  morning  till  late.  Besides,  it  retires  to 
rest  for  every  shower,  and  does  not  move  at  all  in 
wet  days."  Though  so  stupid  and  sleepy  most  of 
the  time,  "yet  there  is  a  season  of  the  year  (usually 
the  beginning  of  June)  when  his  exertions  are 
remarkable.  He  then  walks  on  tiptoe,  and  is  stir 
ring  by  five  in  the  morning,  and,  traversing  the 
garden,'  examines  every  wicket  and  interstice  in  the 
fences,  through  which  he  will  escape,  if  possible, 
and  often  has  eluded  the  care  of  the  gardener  and 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK  173 

wandered  to  some  distant  field.  The  motives  that 
impel  him  to  undertake  these  rambles  seem  to  be  of 
the  amorous  kind;  his  fancy  then  becomes  intent 
on  sexual  attachments,  which  transport  him  beyond 
his  usual  gravity  and  induce  him  to  forget  for  a 
time  his  ordinary  solemn  deportment." 

Not  less  graphic  and  interesting  is  his  account  of 
the  idiot  boy  who  had  a  passion  for  bees  and  honey, 
—  was,  in  fact,  a  veritable  bee-eater,  seeking  the 
bees  in  the  field  and  about  the  hives,  and,  as  he  ran 
about,  making  a  humming  noise  with  his  lips  that 
resembled  the  buzzing  of  bees.  Nothing,  in  fact, 
escaped  White's  attention,  and  his  interest  in  things 
is  so  sane  and  natural,  and  at  the  same  time  so 
lively,  that  his  pages  never  become  obsolete.  ' 

The  American  reader  of  his  book  will  hardly  fail 
to  give  many  of  his  notes  and  observations  an  appli 
cation  at  home,  and  see  wherein  our  own  familiar 
natural  history  agrees  with  or  differs  from  that  of 
the  mother  country.  The  toad  appears  to  be  a 
common  reptile  in  England,  yet  White  confessed 
his  ignorance  of  its  manner  of  propagation,  — 
whether  it  laid  eggs  or  brought  forth  its  young 
alive,  —  and  could  get  no  light  from  the  authorities 
of  his  time  upon  the  subject.  But  the  fact  with 
regard  to  frogs,  he  said,  was  notorious  to  everybody. 
With  us,  the  fact  with  regard  to  toads  is  just  as 
obvious.  Their  spawning  habits  may  be  noticed  in 
the  spring  in  every  marsh  and  roadside  pool,  the 
large,  sedate,  grandmotherly  female  toad  bearing  the 
pert,  dapper  little  male,  looking  like  her  ten-year- 


174  INDOOR   STUDIES 

old  grandson,  upon  her  back.  It  is  apparently  a 
copartnership  between  a  dwarf  and  a  giant.  When 
the  female  is  disturbed,  she  plunges  to  the  bottom 
of  the  pool,  and  buries  herself  in  the  mud,  carrying 
the  clinging  male  with  her,  as  if  he  was  a  very 
slight  appendage  indeed.  The  chain  of  eggs  that 
trails  behind,  and  that  may  be  many  yards  in  length, 
looks  like  a  knitted  black  yarn  in  a  cord  of  transpar 
ent  jelly.  White  says  of  the  British  frogs,  that  as 
soon  as  they  have  passed  out  of  the  tadpole  state 
they  take  to  the  land,  and  that  at  times  the  lanes, 
paths,  and  fields  swarm  with  myriads  of  them  on 
their  travels.  A  similar  phenomenon  may  be  wit 
nessed  in  this  country,  except  that  the  tiny  trav 
elers  are  toads,  and  not  frogs,  and  they  are  not 
migrating,  but  are  out  only  when  it  rains,  and  then 
to  wet  their  jackets.  I  have  never  seen  them 
except  along  the  highway  upon  gravelly  hills  in 
early  summer.  They  are  then  scarcely  as  large  as 
bumblebees. 

White  repeatedly  speaks  of  the  house  swallow, 
which  corresponds  to  our  barn  swallow,  as  a  fine 
songster.  In  soft,  sunny  weather,  he  says,  it  sings 
both  perching  and  flying.  If  this  is  so,  it  is  a 
point  in  favor  of  the  British  bird.  Our  swallow  is 
not  a  songster;  and  yet  the  epithet  which  Virgil 
applies  to  the  swallow  —  garrula  —  fits  our  bird. 
It  twitters  and  squeaks  and  calls;  but  is  that  sing 
ing?  Our  cliff  swallow  does  the  same;  and  yet 
White  says  the  English  martin,  or  martlet,  which 
is  like  our  bird,  is  not  a  songster,  though  it  twitters 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK  175 

in  a  pretty,  inward,  soft  manner  in  its  nest.  Again, 
the  swift,  which  answers  to  our  chimney  swallow, 
he  says,  has  only  a  harsh,  screaming  note  or  two. 
But  our  swift  has  a  very  pretty  chippering  note  or 
call,  which  it  indulges  in  on  the  wing,  and  which 
approaches  very  nearly  to  a  song.  On  the  whole, 
I  conclude  from  White's  account  that  the  common 
European  swallow  has  more  music  in  him  than  ours 
has,  while  our  swift  and  martin  are  more  musical 
than  the  corresponding  species  in  that  country. 
There  is  this  marked  difference  between  the  habits 
of  the  birds  in  the  two  hemispheres:  the  swallow 
that  in  Europe  builds  in  chimneys,  and  is  called 
the  house  or  chimney  swallow,  in  this  country 
builds  in  barns  and  other  outhouses,  and  is  called 
the  barn  swallow;  while  the  swift,  which  builds  in 
chimneys  here,  and  uses  as  material  small  twigs 
gathered  from  the  tops  of  dry  trees,  in  England 
builds  in  crannies  of  castles  and  towers  and  steeples, 
and  uses  for  material  dry  grasses  and  feathers,  — 
which,  however,  it  seems  to  gather  on  the  wing,  as 
our  bird  does  its  twigs. 

White  says  that  birds  that  build  on  the  ground 
do  not  make  much  of  their  nests,  — that  is,  I  sup 
pose,  are  not  much  attached  to  them.  But  this 
observation  would  not  hold  in  this  country.  Our 
song  sparrow  and  field  sparrow,  our  bobolink,  and 
oven-bird,  and  chewink,  and  brown  thrasher,  and 
Canada  warbler,  show  as  strong  an  attachment  for 
their  nests  as  do  the  tree-builders,  and  use  as  many 
arts  to  decoy  the  intruder  away  from  them.  They 


176  INDOOR   STUDIES 

build  quite  as  elaborate  nests,  too;  which  does  not 
seem  to  be  the  case  with  ground-builders  in  Europe. 
There  are  few  finer  and  neater  architects  among  the 
birds  than  our  song  sparrow  and  snowbird. 

White  lays  it  down  "as  a  maxim  in  ornithology 
that  as  long  as  there  is  any  incubation  going  on 
there  is  music."  This  is  true  of  our  birds  also: 
they  continue  in  song  until  the  young  are  hatched. 
But  the  converse  of  the  proposition  is  not  true,  that 
there  is  incubation  as  long  as  there  is  music.  Cer 
tain  species  continue  in  song  long  after  the  last 
brood  has  flown.  I  am  convinced  that  more  birds 
continue  in  song  in  late  summer  and  in  early  au 
tumn  in  this  country  than  do  in  England. 

The  main  features  of  White's  country  are  appar 
ently  but  little  changed  since  his  time.  The  Hanger 
is  there,  with  its  noble  beeches,  and  a  large  part  of 
Wolmer  Forest  still  remains.  I  passed  two  rainy 
days  and  one  night  at  Selborne  in  June,  1882.  At 
the  hotel  where  I  stopped,  a  copy  of  White's  book 
could  not  be  produced.  The  village  is  small,  com 
pact,  and  humble.  The  postman  handed  me  my 
letters  upon  the  street  without  remark,  as  if  I  was 
the  only  stranger  in  the  place,  — which  was  proba 
bly  true.  The  soil  of  that  part  of  England  is  a 
heavy,  greasy  clay.  On  the  steepest  part  of  the 
Hanger  the  boys  ride  or  slide  down  the  hill  in  sum 
mer.  The  turf  is  removed,  and  the  slippery  clay 
is  a  fair  substitute  for  ice.  White's  house  had 
been  recently  much  changed.  It  stands  in  the 
midst  of  the  village,  close  to  the  street,  and  not 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  BOOK  177 

amid  spacious  grounds,  as  one  has  been  led  to  be 
lieve.  I  looked  a  long  time  for  his  tomb  amid  the 
graves  that  surrounded  the  old  church,  and  finally 
found  a  plain  slab  with  "G.  W."  upon  it,  and  that 
was  all.  There  was  no  mark  that  indicated  that 
the  grave  was  more  frequently  visited  than  any 
other.  The  church  is  essentially  the  same  as  in 
White's  time,  and  the  immense  yew  that  stands 
near  the  entrance  must  date  back  several  hundred 
years.  The  yew  is  a  striking-looking  tree.  In 
this  country  the  species  is  represented  by  a  low, 
reclining  bush,  which  reaches  out  laterally,  with 
but  a  slight  tendency  upward.  In  England  the 
lateral  tendency  of  growth  is  still  very  marked,  the 
trunk  being  short  and  squat,  and  by  its  ridgy,  cor 
rugated  character  looking  more  like  a  bundle  or 
sheaf  of  smaller  trees  than  like  a  single  bole. 

Thus  far  White  stands  alone  among  English 
writers  in  his  field.  Much  pleasant  literature  has 
of  late  years  been  inspired  by  nature-studies  in 
Great  Britain,  but  the  new  books  have  not  quite 
the  sweetness  and  charm,  not  quite  the  sincerity, 
of  that  of  the  Selborne  parson. 


VII 

A  MALFORMED   GIANT1 

QUINCE Y  somewhere  remarks  that  the 
Roman  mind  was  great  in  the  presence  of 
man,  never  in  the  presence  of  nature.  I  am  not 
going  to  undertake  to  say  whether  or  not  this  obser 
vation  is  wholly  true.  Undoubtedly  there  is  truth 
in  it.  I  remember  Gibbon  says  that  to  the  Ro 
mans  the  ocean  was  an  object  of  terror  rather  than 
of  curiosity,  and  that  that  warlike  people  was  never 
"actuated  by  the  enterprising  spirit  which  had 
prompted  the  navigators  of  Tyre,  of  Carthage,  and 
even  of  Marseilles  to  enlarge  the  bounds  of  the 
world,  and  to  explore  the  most  remote  coasts  of  the 
ocean."  But  empire  upon  the  land  came  easy  to 
the  Roman.  He  was  great  in  war,  in  government, 
in  jurisprudence,  and  in  the  administration  of  all 
human  affairs. 

De  Quincey's  distinction  came   to   my  mind   in 

1  Perhaps  I  ought  to  apologize  to  my  reader  for  the  polem 
ical  tone  of  the  latter  part  of  this  essay.  It  was  written  many 
years  ago  in  reply  to  an  able  critic,  the  late  William  D.  O'Connor, 
who  had  resented  my  epithet  of  "  mad-dog  "  as  applied  to  Victor 
Hugo's  nature,  and  I  find  it  impossible  to  change  it  now.  As  a 
protest  against  the  glaring  vice  of  Hugo's  art  I  think  it  well 
enough;  I  would  only  change  its  vehement  and  controversial 
tone  and  temper. 


180  INDOOR   STUDIES 

meditating  upon  Victor  Hugo.  Here,  I  said,  is  a 
great  man,  unquestionably  a  great  man,  who  shows 
to  least  advantage  in  his  dealings  with  nature.  He 
seems  to  feel  something  of  the  Roman  dread  and 
horror  in  the  presence  of  the  ocean.  Great  in  deal 
ing  with  social  problems  or  historical  events,  great 
in  describing  Waterloo,  or  the  sewers  of  Paris,  or 
Paris  itself,  tremendous  in  the  realism  of  his  char 
acters,  in  the  presence  of  storms  or  tempests,  or  of 
any  phase  of  elemental  nature,  his  imagination  runs 
away  with  him.  His  nature  is  a  kind  of  mad-dog 
nature,  and  the  physical  universe,  in  his  handling 
of  it,  seems  smitten  with  hydrophobia.  The  con 
tinence,  the  moderation,  the  self-denial  which  the 
Anglo-Saxon  temperament  loves,  and  which  charac 
terizes  nearly  all  first-class  poets  and  artists,  are 
nowhere  to  be  found.  If  he  mentions  the  song  of 
the  skylark,  he  must  call  upon  the  infinite  and  the 
immensities  to  bear  witness.  One  fully  understands 
what  Heine  means  when  he  speaks  of  Hugo's  "huge 
and  tasteless  excrescences."  Yet  it  is  impossible 
not  to  feel  the  man's  power  even  in  the  poorest 
translation  of  his  books.  He  is  about  the  only 
writer  of  his  country  who  impresses  one  as  a  man 
who  rises  above  the  literature,  whose  love  of  letters 
is  dominated  by  his  love  of  country,  his  love  of 
man,  his  love  of  liberty  and  right,  —  a  fact  which 
makes  him  a  great  moral  and  political  force  aside 
from  his  influence  in  the  region  of  letters.  There 
is  somewhat  aboriginal  and  elemental  in  him,  as  in 
all  first-class  men.  The  bare  conception  of  "The 


A   MALFORMED   GIANT  181 

Man  who  Laughs  "  is  tremendous.  Only  the  first 
order  of  minds  can  conjure  up  such  material  and 
deal  with  such  a  motif.  It  is  like  the  granite  rock. 
But  oh  the  absurdities  and  anachronisms  in  the 
working  of  it  up!  "The  Toilers,"  too,  faces  reali 
ties  of  the  largest  kind,  but  there  are  things  in  it 
which,  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  well  says,  simply 
make  the  reader  cover  his  face  with  his  hands,  the 
artistic  falsehoods  are  so  glaring.  The  description 
of  the  storm  which  overtakes  Gilliat  just  as  his  task 
is  about  finished  resembles  the  work  of  the  great 
artists  about  as  nearly  as  a  nightmare  resembles  the 
reality.  Yet  in  all  these  romances  everything  is 
large,  elemental;  no  hair-splitting,  nothing  petty 
or  over-refined.  It  is  the  work  of  a  giant,  but  one 
malformed.  Hugo  at  once  strikes  a  louder,  stronger 
key  than  any  of  his  contemporaries.  His  voice 
rises  above  all  others,  and  is  as  full  of  cheer  and 
hope  as  it  is  full  of  denunciation  and  wrath.  He 
was  like  dynamite  and  giant  powder,  which  make 
themselves  heard  and  felt  afar.  He  had  no  repose, 
and  this  is  one  reason  why  he  is  so  irritating  to  the 
English  mind.  Another  reason  is  his  want  of  self- 
restraint.  As  a  literary  artist  he  out-Herods  Herod. 
In  the  torrent,  tempest,  and  whirlwind  of  his  passion, 
all  goes  by  the  board.  "The  modesty  of  nature," 
which  Hamlet  laid  such  stress  upon  in  his  address 
to  the  players,  is  not  only  "o'erstepped,"  it  is  out 
rageously  insulted.  Probably  never  before  in  the 
history  of  literature  has  a  master  spirit  cut  such 
fantastic  tricks  before  the  high  heaven  of  literary  art. 


182  INDOOR   STUDIES 

He  illustrates  in  his  field  excesses  and  violences  as 
great  as  those  which  have  marked  the  history  of 
the  French  people.  His  offenses  against  good  taste, 
against  one's  sense  of  fitness  and  proportion,  are,  in 
their  way,  on  a  par  with  the  monstrous  doings  of 
the  French  Revolution.  The  writer  shocks  one's 
artistic  perceptions,  as  the  people  shock  one's  reason 
and  humanity.  And  in  both  cases  it  was  rebellion 
run  mad.  The  revolt  of  the  people  against  the 
authority  of  the  state  and  of  the  priests  became 
frenzy,  and  the  revolt  of  Hugo  against  the  classic 
standards  became  rodomontade.  He  was  a  roman 
ticist,  which  he  construed  to  mean  just  the  contrary 
of  the  classicist.  One  law  of  Greek  art  and  of 
Greek  life  was,  nothing  in  excess,  —  a  wise  measure 
in  all  things;  therefore  Hugo  piles  on  the  agony: 
the  classic  authors  were  calm,  they  avoided  every 
thing  sensational,  all  undue  emphasis;  therefore 
will  Hugo  rave  and  be  sensational:  they  cultivated 
a  sobriety  and  temperance  which  instinctively 
avoided  everything  that  was  calculated  to  weaken 
an  impression;  therefore  does  the  Frenchman  give 
free  reign  to  his  rhetoric  and  ride  roughshod  over 
all  such  tame  consideration.  Relevancy,  harmony 
of  parts,  unity  of  impression,  —  these  are  some  of 
the  excellences  of  the  classics;  but  "Les  Misdra- 
bles,"  with  all  its  power  and  effectiveness,  is  like 
a  man  with  elephantiasis  in  some  of  his  members. 
When  about  a  third  of  it  is  cut  away  the  story  has 
some  unity.  Where  the  classics  are  dramatic,  Hugo 
is  melodramatic,  —  note  Gilliat  in  "  The  Toilers  " 


A    MALFORMED   GIANT  183 

sitting  himself  upon  the  shore  to  be  drowned  by  the 
tide,  and  his  head  disappearing  under  the  water  at 
the  moment  the  sloop  he  is  watching  drops  behind 
the  horizon.  Where  the  old  writers  are  simple,  he 
is  sensational.  The  Anglo-Saxon  mind,  and  every 
other  normal  and  healthful  type  of  mind,  is  classi 
cal  in  this :  it  loves  proportion,  restraint,  self-denial, 
and  has  a  lively  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things;  does 
not  like  any  trifling  with  the  centre  of  gravity,  and 
keeps  close  to  the  simple  truth.  Let  a  man  fire 
hot  shot  if  he  will,  but  let  him  keep  his  own  guns 
cool.  In  nearly  all  Victor  Hugo's  political  tracts 
and  manifestoes  the  gun  is  hotter  than  the  shot 
which  it  throws,  and  we  are  more  concerned  for  the 
writer  than  we  are  for  his  enemy.  He  will  spur 
his  earnestness  until  it  becomes  frenzy,  and  his  rhet 
oric  until  it  becomes  rodomontade.  Note  his  mani 
festo  to  the  Prussians  during  the  siege  of  Paris. 
To  see  him  rending  his  flesh,  livid  with  rage  and 
almost  foaming  at  the  mouth,  read  certain  pages  in 
his  "Napoleon  the  Little;"  or  to  see  him  again, 
under  a  different  pressure,  beating  the  air  wildly, 
and  goading  his  imagination  after  his  climax  is 
reached,  like  a  rider  burying  his  rowel  into  his 
steed  after  the  poor  beast  has  long  done  its  best, 
read  the  concluding  parts  of  his  description  of  the 
battle  of  Waterloo,  or  the  last  stages  of  the  storm 
that  overtakes  Gilliat  in  "The  Toilers,"  or  the 
threefold  agony  of  the  rhetoric  of  a  similar  descrip 
tion  in  "The  Man  who  Laughs"  (the  machine  that 
grins,  a  friend  says).  To  be  great  in  the  presence 


184  INDOOR   STUDIES 

of  nature,  to  be  great  in  any  presence,  is  to  stand 
firmly  on  your  feet,  to  use  all  gently,  and  in  the 
very  torrent,  tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say)  whirl 
wind  of  your  passion,  -acquire  and  beget  a  temper 
ance  that  will  give  it  smoothness.  In  the  case  of 
Victor  Hugo,  when  the  pressure  of  his  passion 
mounts  to  a  certain  pitch,  he  invariably  flies  from 
his  orbit  and  from  being  planetary,  as  .ZEschylus 
and  Shakespeare  always  are,  becomes  cometary  and 
lawless,  losing  fervor  in  fury  and  reason  in  riot. 
He  would  have  every  storm  a  cyclone,  every  fish  a 
monster,  every  clown  a  gnome,  a  medusa;  and  if 
they  are  not  so  it  is  not  his  fault.  He  "pushes 
the  passions  till  the  bond  of  nature  snaps  and  all 
the  furies  come  screeching  in."  Let  me  explain 
myself  further.  Close  alongside  of  the  sphere  of 
the  normal  lies  the  sphere  of  the  abnormal;  of  the 
sane,  lies  the  insane;  of  pleasure,  lies  disgust;  of 
cohesion,  lies  dissolution;  of  the  grotesque,  lies  the 
hideous;  of  the  sublime,  lies  the  ridiculous;  of 
power,  lies  plethora;  of  sense,  lies  twaddle,  etc. 
Take  but  a  step  sometimes  and  you  pass  from  one 
to  the  other,  from  a  shout  to  a  scream,  from  the 
heroic  to  the  vainglorious.  Victor  Hugo,  in  his 
imaginative  flights,  is  forever  hovering  about  this 
dividing  line,  fascinated,  spellbound  by  what  lies 
beyond,  and  in  his  Teachings  after  it  outraging  the 
:i  modesty  of  nature  "  till  the  very  soul  blushes.  It 
would  seem  as  if  he  loved  the  unnatural  simply 
because  it  is  the  unnatural,  and  the  malformed  sim 
ply  because  it  is  the  malformed.  He  loves  to  push 


A   MALFORMED    GIANT  185 

the  normal  till  it  becomes  the  abnormal,  the  dra 
matic  till  it  becomes  the  melodramatic,  the  intense 
till  it  becomes  the  hysterical;  he  loves  to  push 
anger,  jealousy,  remorse,  grief,  till  the  bond  snaps 
and  Termagant  is  o'erdone.  His  characters  rave, 
gnash,  rend  their  hair,  froth  at  the  mouth,  and 
even  die  in  paroxysms  of  passion.  No  doubt,  in 
the  opinion  of  Victor  Hugoites  like  Swinburne, 
there  is  no  reason  why  their  eyes  should  not  leap 
from  their  sockets,  their  flesh  wither  on  their  bones, 
or  serpents  hiss  from  their  ears,  nose,  and  mouth, 
if  the  "  imperial  fantasy  "  of  the  novelist  orders  it. 
I  am  not  now  thinking  of  his  poems,  some  of  which 
I  regard  as  truly  great,  but  of  his  leading  character 
istics  as  a  novelist;  of  "Bug-Jargal"  and  "Notre 
Dame."  How  fares  the  modesty  of  nature  in  these 
volumes?  The  former  is  not  so  well  known,  but 
what  shall  we  say  of  the  latter?  Let  us  examine 
it  a  little,  since  this  is  one  of  his  masterpieces. 
As  a  work  of  art  what  is  it  a  faithful  transcript  of? 
It  is  full  of  monstrosities,  both  moral  and  physical, 
full  of  distorted  passions,  unhallowed  .lusts,  fiendish 
brutality,  diabolical  ravings,  writhing  agonies,  hide 
ous  grimaces,  sepulchral  wailings,  —  full  of  all  man 
ner  of  underground  horrors  and  aboveground  abomi 
nations.  It  is  a  carnival  of  the  loathsome.  If, 
underneath  these  things,  and  inclosing  them,  one 
recognized  the  great  remedial  forces  of  nature,  or 
the  compensations  of  time  and  history,  there  would 
be  some  refuge,  some  escape.  But  the  earth  is 
rotten,  the  sunshine  pestiferous,  the  waters  stygian, 


186  INDOOR    STUDIES 

Paris  a  den  of  cutthroats  and  thieves,  love  is  lech 
ery,  and  religion  death.  This  fact  alone  quashes 
all  minor  excellence.  No  work  is  permissible  that 
flies  in  the  teeth  of  the  established  order  of  the  uni 
verse.  It  is  the  business  of  the  artist,  above  all 
else,  to  preserve  the  balance  of  things.  Creation  is 
not  by  one  element  alone.  Fire  alone  consumes; 
earth,  air,  water,  are  also  necessary. 

In  struggling  through  the  blistering,  arid  wastes 
of  Hysteria  that  abound  in  this  novel,  one  remem 
bers  with  profound  emotion  the  silence  of  Ajax  in 
Hell,  and  sees  with  Longinus  that  it  was  more 
impressive  than  anything  he  could  have  said;  or 
the  soldier  of  Waterloo,  who,  when  asked  to  sur 
render  in  that  crater  of  fire  and  death,  could  find 
but  one  word  in  which  to  express  his  scorn  and 
defiance  and  that  a  word  of  filth,  not  permissible  in 
print.  (Is  there  any  doubt  about  how  the  same 
spirit  would  greet  Hugo's  grand  burst  over  the 
circumstances  ?) 

The  action  of  the  story  of  "Notre  Dame"  per 
haps  culminates  when  the  monster  Quasimodo 
defends  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  against  the 
midnight  assault  of  about  six  thousand  Truands  — 
the  nocturnal  human  vermin  of  Paris  during  the 
Middle  Ages  —  composed  of  thieves,  harlots,  mur 
derers,  beggars,  gypsies,  —  a  reeking,  fetid,  scrofu 
lous,  chaotic  mass,  that  smelled  to  heaven.  As 
they  surge  about  the  building  in  the  darkness,  the 
Hunchback  hurls  upon  them  from  a  height  of  nearly 
two  hundred  feet,  first  a  huge  beam,  that  spatters 


A   MALFORMED   GIANT  187 

them  in  fragments  about;  then  bricks,  stones,  rocks, 
that  bury  themselves  in  their  heads.  Finally,  not 
being  able  to  make  an  impression  on  this  nightmare 
of  a  mob,  he  kindles  a  huge  fire  in  one  of  the  towers 
and  piles  upon  it  sheets  of  lead,  and  presently  two 
huge  gutters  vomit  upon  the  assailants  a  shower  of 
molten  metal  which  is  represented  as  burning  them 
to  cinders.  In  any  less  vivid  imagination  than 
Victor  Hugo's,  molten  lead,  after  running  some 
distance  over  stone  gutters  and  falling  one  hundred 
and  eighty  feet  through  a  cool  atmosphere,  would 
have  resulted  in  a  shower  of  bullets,  —  to  say  no 
thing  of  its  burning  people  to  cinders. 

But  this  is,  no  doubt,  an  instance  in  which  he 
exercises  the  prerogative  of  his  "imperial  fantasy." 

In  the  same  assault  a  mere  youth  heavily  laden 
with  armor  is  represented  as  bringing  with  celerity 
a  ladder  which  must  have  been  seventy  feet  long, 
and  not  only  carrying  it  but  placing  it  in  position. 
Quite  a  feat  for  a  mere  youth,  what  indeed  ten  men 
could  not  do  (allowing  that  a  single  ladder  of  that 
length  was  ever  made,  which  of  course  is  absurd), 
but  a  mere  straw  to  the  imperial  fantasy  of  Victor 
Hugo.  It  was  the  same  imperial  fantasy,  no 
doubt,  that  kept  the  naked  feet,  to  say  nothing  of 
his  half-clad  body,  of  the  boy  Gwynplaine  from 
freezing  in  that  four  or  six  hours'  ramble  over  the 
Portland  hills  through  the  snow  and  bitter  cold, 
now  on  the  ice,  now  in  the  water,  now  floundering 
through  drifts,  his  rags  stiff,  the  icy  edges  chafing 
the  flesh  till  the  blood  comes  (?).  The  same  fan- 


188  INDOOE   STUDIES 

tastic  sovereignty  causes  the  cylone  in  the  northern 
hemisphere  to  revolve  in  the  direction  of  the  hands 
of  a  watch,  and  sends  an  unincumbered  sailor,  when 
he  leaps  from  a  sinking  wreck  to  swim  to  a  distant 
rock,  several  fathoms  under  water  and  sets  him 
groping  around  on  the  submarine  ledges  before  he 
rises  to  the  surface  in  order  that  the  apocryphal 
devil-fish  may  get  hold  of  him. 

But  to  continue  the  review  of  "Notre  Dame." 
In  the  concluding  chapters  of  this  novel  the  author 
indulges  to  the  utmost  his  love  for  the  monstrous 
and  abnormal  exhibitions  of  the  human  passions, 
and  there  is  no  escape;  not  even  does  the  stern 
visage  of  Justice  loom  above  the  scene,  or  the 
grander  visage  of  Destiny. 

In  the  distance  a  man  ascends  a  ladder  to  a  per 
manent  gibbet,  carrying  a  female  figure  on  his 
shoulder,  —  a  young  girl  clad  in  white.  The  noose 
is  adjusted,  the  ladder  kicked  away,  and  the  deli 
cate  form  is  launched  into  the  air  with  the  figure  of 
a  man  squatted  upon  its  shoulders. 

At  this  moment,  in  the  foreground,  on  one  of 
the  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  a  priest  who  is  contem 
plating  the  scene  with  outstretched  neck,  starting 
eyeballs,  and  livid  visage,  being  driven  to  the  verge 
of  insanity  by  sheer  brutal  lust  for  the  girl,  but 
thwarted  in  his  designs  by  her  horror  of  himself 
and  her  love  for  another,  is  suddenly  set  upon  from 
behind  by  the  enraged  Hunchback,  who  it  seems 
is  also  in  love  with  the  girl,  and  precipitated  over 
the  balustrade  into  the  abyss.  But  the  gutter 


A   MALFORMED   GIANT  189 

arrests  his  fall,  and  he  clings  to  it  with  desperate 
grip. 

Here  Hugo  dallies  with  him  and  gloats  over  him. 
He  is  suspended  two  hundred  feet  above  the  pave 
ment,  and  cannot  long  maintain  his  hold.  It  is  a 
startling  situation,  and  Hugo  loves  startling  situa 
tions.  He  contemplates  him  panting,  perspiring, 
his  nails  bleeding  against  the  stones,  his  knees 
grazing  the  wall,  the  lead  pipe  gradually  yielding, 
his  strength  failing,  his  hands  slipping,  his  vitals 
freezing,  till  the  inevitable  moment  comes,  and  he 
falls  through  the  void  to  the  earth  beneath.  We 
repeat  that  there  would  be  no  objection  to  all  this 
if  it  contained  food  for  the  imagination,  if  it  opened 
any  ideal  depths  in  the  mind  or  was  relieved  by  any 
background;  but,  excepting  that  the  verbal  work 
manship  is  vastly  better,  it  ranks  no  higher  as  art 
than  the  blood-and-thunder  stories  of  the  weekly 
novelette. 

If  a  man  is  drawn  into  the  maelstrom,  or  falls 
into  a  volcano,  or  is  lost  at  sea,  or  goes  down  in 
battle,  or  meets  suffering  and  death  in  a  heroic  man 
ner,  there  is  room  for  the  imagination  to  work;  but 
art  would  have  little  interest  in  a  man  being  sawed 
in  two,  or  roasted  alive,  or  crushed  under  a  weight, 
or  dangling  at  the  end  of  a  rope.  If  the  "Prome 
theus  "  of  ^Eschylus  had  nothing  to  recommend  it 
but  the  aspect  of  physical  torture  which  it  depicts, 
however  vividly  painted  it  would  at  once  lose  its 
value  as  a  work  of  art. 

There  is  therefore  this  final  remark  to  be  made 


190  INDOOR    STUDIES 

upon  the  element  of  the  hideous  and  the  monstrous 
that  figures  so  largely  in  Victor  Hugo's  novels,  and 
that  is  this:  It  has  little  or  no  artistic  value,  be 
cause  it  has  little  or  no  interest  to  the  imagination. 
When  employed  by  the  old  artists  and  poets,  these 
things  are  so  charged  and  surcharged  with  meaning 
and  power  that  the  literal  import  is  lost  sight  of,  and 
the  mind  breathes  a  higher  atmosphere. 

Hugo's  novels  are  marked  by  a  feverish,  preter 
natural  intensity,  not  so  much  good,  human,  soul- 
shaking  emotion  as  a  sort  of  psychological  typhoon 
and  hurricane  that  means  death  to  every  green  thing 
and  to  every  sane  impulse.  I  am  aware  that  a 
microscopical  examination  of  his  works  reveals  many 
fine  passages,  green  spots,  idyllic  touches  here  and 
there  (but  even  in  these  I  can  smell  the  sulphur), 
but  to  say  they  are  characteristic  of  him  is  as  absurd 
as  it  would  be  to  say  that  humor  is  characteristic  of 
him  because  he  made  a  "machine  that  grins." 

The  Bishop  in  "  Les  Mise'rables "  is  perhaps 
Hugo's  most  serious  attempt  to  paint  (for  he  does 
not  create)  a  lofty  character.  And  what  is  the 
Bishop's  attitude  toward  the  All-mother?  "  The 
universe  appeared  to  him  like  a  vast  disease, "  for 
aught  I  know  as  if  "smitten  writh  hydrophobia." 
His  tenderness  toward  nature  is  so  excessive  as  to 
become  silliness.  "One  day  he  received  a  sprain 
rather  than  crush  an  ant."  "One  morning  he  was 
in  his  garden  and  thought  himself  alone,  but  his 
sister  was  walking  behind  him:  all  at  once  he 
stopped  and  looked  at  something  on  the  ground; 


A  MALFORMED   GIANT  191 

it  was  a  large,  black,  hairy,  horrible  spider.  His 
"sister  heard  him  say :  '  Poor  thing !  it  is  not  his 
fault. ' '  A  galley  slave  whom  he  had  hospitably 
fed  and  lodged  in  his  house  makes  off  in  the  night 
with  his  silver.  In  the  morning  he  is  walking  in 
the  garden  again,  when  his  "women  folks"  make 
the  discovery  and  raise  the  alarm;  but,  so  far  from 
sharing  in  the  surprise  or  the  indignation  which 
was  quite  proper  on  the  occasion,  he  thinks  only  of 
a  little  flower  that  the  man  had  crushed  in  passing 
out,  and  bends  over  it  with  a  look  of  sadness  and 
pity.  There  may  be  persons  to  whom  this  sort  of 
thing  is  impressive  and  grand,  but  for  my  part  I 
cannot  see  how  it  can  ever  be  possible  to  one  hav 
ing  a  genuine  feeling  or  appreciation  of  nature. 

The  mighty  poet  does  not  recreate  nature  in  any 
radical  sense.  He  redistributes,  remoulds,  remar 
ries,  when  occasion  requires,  always  bearing  in 
mind  the  almighty  edict,  "Thus  far  shalt  thou  go 
and  no  farther."  And  it  is  the  final  test  and  glory 
of  his  work  that  though  vast  and  imposing  it  falls 
easily  within  the  scope  of  the  natural  universal. 


VIII 

BRIEF  ESSAYS 


THE  BIOLOGIST'S  TREE  OF  LIFE. 

ONE  of  the  most  helpful  and  satisfactory  con 
ceptions  of  modern  biological  science  is  the 
conception  of  the  animal  life  of  the  globe  under 
the  image  of  a  tree,  —  a  tree  which  has  its  root  and 
trunk  in  the  remote  past,  and  its  outermost  twigs 
and  branches  in  our  own  day ;  and,  moreover,  a 
tree  which  has  attained  its  growth,  which  has 
reached  its  maturity,  and  whose  history  in  the  far 
future  must  be  marked  by  a  slow  decline.  This  is 
the  Tree  of  Life  of  the  evolutionist,  and  affords  the 
key  to  the  natural  classification  of  the  animal  king 
dom  as  taught  by  Darwin  and  others,  and  as  op 
posed  to  the  artificial  or  arbitrary  classification  of 
Cuvier  and  the  older  naturalists.  This  tree  first 
emerges  into  view  in  the  Silurian  age,  probably  not 
less  than  fifty  million  years  ago,  and  emerges  as  a 
pretty  well-developed  tree,  that  is,  as  having  many 
branches.  Its  trunk  is  beyond  our  ken,  hidden  in 
still  more  remote  ages.  No  fossils  have  been  found 
in  rocks  older  than  the  Silurian.  But  if  evolution 


194  INDOOR    STUDIES 

is  true,  it  is  pretty  certain  that  there  must  have 
been  life  on  the  globe  long  before  that  date.  Our 
tree  must  have  started  as  a  single  shoot,  but  this 
single  stem,  our  first  parent  form,  has  not  been 
found.  The  biologist  is  convinced  that  the  very 
first  forms  of  life  were  soft  and  very  perishable,  and 
that  therefore  no  record  of  them  could  be  preserved 
in  the  sedimentary  rocks.  But  the  later  forms, 
which  led  up  to  and  were  the  parents  of  those  which 
emerge  into  view  in  the  Silurian  age,  must  have 
been  capable  of  fossilization.  A  record  of  them 
doubtless  exists  somewhere,  and  may,  in  time,  be 
brought  to  light.  Darwin  thought  the  record  was 
probably  in  the  rocks  beneath  the  sea,  as  it  is  cer 
tain  the  sea  and  the  land  have  changed  places.  Or 
the  record  may  be  in  the  Arctic  regions,  where 
some  naturalists  believe  life  first  began,  seeing  this 
part  of  the  earth's  surface  would  be  the  first  to  cool 
and  become  of  a  temperature  that  admitted  of  ani 
mal  life.  In  any  case  but  a  mere  fraction  of  the 
record  —  hardly  more  than  a  few  pages  out  of  many 
large  volumes  —  is  accessible  and  has  been  subject 
to  scrutiny.  The  roots  and  trunk  of  our  tree  must 
be  assumed  to  have  existed.  We  assume  that  lan 
guage  began  in  rude  sounds  and  grunts  and  signs, 
as  we  see  it  begin  in  a  child,  though  of  course  no 
record  of  them  could  be  preserved,  and  that  it  has 
developed  from  these  into  the  marvelous  structure 
which  we  now  behold,  branching  and  refining  and 
specializing  almost  endlessly. 

In  the  Silurian  age,  then,  we  strike  the  top  of 


BRIEF  ESSAYS  195 

our  tree  of  life.  All  the  great  branches  are  repre 
sented,  all  the  important  classes  of  animals  have 
made  their  appearance,  even  the  vertebrates  being 
represented  in  the  upper  Silurian  by  fishes.  Of 
this  tree  the  sub-kingdoms  represent  the  great 
branches,  the  classes  represent  their  division,  the 
orders  theirs,  the  family  theirs,  and  so  up  to 
species  which  represents  the  terminal  twigs.  The 
abundance  of  specialized  forms  in  the  Silurian  age, 
that  is,  the  many  smaller  branches  that  appear,  and 
the  absence  of  two  generalized  forms,  or  main 
branches,  that  must  have  preceded  them,  is  one  of 
the  main  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  evolution  the 
ory,  a  theory  of  generic  descent;  but  those  parent 
branches,  as  I  have  said,  are  hidden,  the  record  of 
them  has  not  been  found,  probably  never  can  be 
found. 

It  is  very  certain,  not  only  from  direct  evidence, 
but  in  the  light  of  analogy,  that  the  forces  of  nature, 
vital  and  other,  were  much  more  active  in  the  early 
geologic  ages  than  they  are  now.  It  was  the  youth 
of  the  world ;  why  should  they  not  be  more  active  ? 
Why  should  there  not  have  been  more  fluids  and 
gases  and  more  rapid  growths  and  changes  1  There 
was  more  heat,  doubtless  more  rapid  evaporation, 
and  more  copious  precipitation.  Our  rivers  and 
lakes  and  watercourses  are  but  a  fraction  of  what 
they  were  in  comparatively  recent  geologic  times. 
This  tree  of  life  grew  rapidly  in  those  warm,  moist 
May  and  June  days  of  the  Silurian  and  Devonian 
epochs.  New  species  appeared  with  comparative 


196  INDOOR   STUDIES 

suddenness;  the  life  of  the  globe  was  full  and 
riotous.  Enormous  forms  began  to  appear,  —  flying 
dragons  and  terrible  and  grotesque  monsters  of  the 
deep.  There  was  a  plethora  of  power,  an  excess  of 
mere  animal  life. 

But  as  the  ages  rolled  on,  Nature  began  to  sober 
down:  her  pace  became  slower  and  more  deliber 
ate,  and  she  began  to  rise  on  stepping-stones  of  her 
dead  self.  The  higher  forms  of  life  began  to  ap 
pear.  Birds  emerged,  mammals  came  forth.  In 
the  Tertiary  age  the  brains  of  mammals,  according 
to  Marsh,  began  to  increase  in  size ;  henceforth  the 
struggle  was  not  to  be  one  of  physical  strength 
merely,  but  intelligence  began  to  play  a  part.  The 
maturity  of  the  tree  of  life  was  approaching. 

That  the  geological  changes  were  more  rapid  in 
the  earlier  history  of  the  earth  than  they  are  now, 
seems  to  me  to  admit  of  no  doubt.  The  forces  of 
the  globe  were  more  restless  and  titanic.  They  had 
not  yet  attained  to  the  equilibrium  and  the  repose 
that  we  now  see.  The  crust  of  the  earth  was  thin 
ner;  the  internal  fires  were  nearer;  the  solid  ground 
was  less  solid  than  that  we  now  walk  upon.  Vol 
canoes  were  more  active,  earthquakes  more  fre 
quent.  The  crust  of  the  earth  still  throbs  and 
palpitates  under  the  influence  of  lunar  and  solar 
attraction  and  of  unequal  atmospheric  pressure. 
Think,  then,  how  much  more  it  must  have  done 
so,  say  in  the  Silurian  age.  The  cataclysmal  theo 
ries  of  the  earlier  geologists  have  been  much  modi 
fied  by  Lyell  and  his  school,  but,  so  far  as  they 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  197 

imply  greater  volume  and  activity  in  past  ages  of 
'the  physical  forces  that  have  shaped  the  earth,  they 
are  doubtless  true.  In  the  Tertiary  age  these  forces 
became  much  more  gentle  and  uniform  in  their 
workings.  As  changes  in  the  earth's  surface  would 
be  the  most  powerful  factor  in  bringing  about 
changes  of  species,  we  see  why  new  species  seem  to 
have  made  their  appearance  so  suddenly  in  early 
geologic  times. 

There  can  be  but  little  doubt  that  the  earth  has 
at  last  reached  the  maturity  of  her  powers.  She  is 
like  a  ripe  apple  upon  the  bough.  Henceforth  its 
excellence  must  slowly  decline.  The  game  of  life 
upon  this  planet  has  been  essentially  played.  That 
is,  no  new  developments  remain,  no  new  species  on 
any  extended  scale,  as  in  the  past,  are  to  appear. 
The  bird  has  been  evolved  from  the  reptile,  but  the 
bird  is  doubtless  the  top  of  that  branch  of  our  tree 
of  life;  no  new  form  is  to  be  evolved  from  the 
bird.  We  know  pretty  well  the  evolution  of  the 
horse;  he  has  arisen  through  various  lower  and 
lesser  forms,  but  probably  nothing  is  to  come  after 
the  horse.  The  same  with  other  forms.  No  higher 
form  is  to  succeed  man,  as  he  has  succeeded  the 
lower.  Monkeys  and  ourangs  are  left  behind ;  they 
will  not  give  birth  to  a  being  superior  to  them 
selves;  they  are  twigs  that  have  been  outstripped 
by  other  and  more  favored  branches.  Man  is  the 
last  of  the  series.  Superior  races  may  arise,  but  not 
a  new  and  superior  type  of  being.  And  it  is  very 
doubtful  about  the  superior  race;  there  are  those 


198  INDOOR   STUDIES 

who  believe  the  race  culminated  in  tha  Greeks  over 
two  thousand  years  ago.  After  the  earth  has  been 
thoroughly  subdued  and  possessed  by  the  dominant 
races,  as  it  will  be  in  a  few  hundred  years  more, 
this  topmost  branch  of  the  tree  will  probably  begin 
to  fail  in  vitality  and  fruitfulness.  But  just  what 
form  the  decline  will  take  can  be  only  a  matter  of 
speculation.  We  only  know  that  all  things  have 
their  periods,  and  are  safe  in  inferring  that  the  life 
of  the  globe  as  a  whole  will  have  its  period,  just 
as  surely  as  any  tree  in  the  forest  or  any  plant  in 
the  fields  has  its  period.  Why  should  it  not  be 
so?  We  know  any  and  every  single  form  perishes; 
why  should  not  the  earth  itself  grow  old  and  die  ? 
The  life  of  a  man  is  typical  of  the  life  of  the  earth. 
The  stages  of  an  orb's  life,  say  the  astronomers, 
are  stages  of  cooling.  So  are  the  stages  of  man's 
life.  It  is  a  process  of  cooling  and  hardening  from 
youth  to  age.  Think  of  the  gaseous,  nebulous 
youth  out  of  which  the  man  is  gathered  and  consoli 
dated!  Fiery,  stormy,  vapory,  at  first,  then  cold, 
hard,  sterile  at  last. 

ii 

DR.   JOHNSON   AND   CARLYLE 

Glancing  at  a  remark  in  the  London  "Times," 
the  author  of  "Obiter  Dicta,"  in  his  late  essay  on 
Dr.  Johnson,  asks:  "Is  it  as  plain  as  the  '  old  hill 
of  Howth'  that  Carlyle  was  a  greater  man  than 
Johnson  ?  Is  not  the  precise  contrary  the  truth  1  " 
There  are  very  many  people,  I  imagine,  who  would 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  199 

be  slow  to  admit  that  the  "  precise  contrary  "  was 
.the  truth ;  yet  it  is  a  question  not  to  be  decided 
offhand.  Both  were  great  men,  unquestionably, 
apart  from  their  mere  literary  and  scholastic  accom 
plishments.  Each  made  a  profound  impression  by 
virtue  of  his  force  of  character,  his  weight  and  au 
thority  as  a  person.  As  to  which  was  the  greater 
moral,  or  literary,  or  political  force,  as  embodied  in 
his  works,  it  seems  to  me  there  can  be  but  one 
opinion.  But  the  quantity  of  manhood  each  gave 
evidence  of  in  his  life,  and  the  quantity  of  genius 
he  gave  evidence  of  in  his  books,  —  these  of  course 
are  two  different  questions.  As  regards  the  genius, 
Carlyle  ranks  far  above  Johnson. 

Indeed,  the  intellectual  equipment  of  the  two 
men,  and  the  value  of  their  contributions  to  litera 
ture,  admit  of  hardly  any  comparison.  But  the 
question  still  is  of  the  man,  not  of  the  writer. 
Which  was  the  greater  and  more  helpful  force  as  a 
human  being?  which  bore  himself  the  more  nobly 
and  victoriously  through  life  ?  —  in  short,  which  was 
the  greater  man?  Mr.  Birrell  seems  to  base  his 
conviction  that  Johnson  was  the  greater  upon  the 
latter's  simple  resignation  and  acceptance  of  the  ills 
of  life:  — 

"  Johnson  was  a  man  of  strong  passions,  unbend 
ing  spirit,  violent  temper;  as  poor  as  a  church 
mouse  and  as  proud  as  the  proudest  of  church  dig 
nitaries  ;  endowed  with  the  strength  of  a  coal-heaver, 
the  courage  of  a  lion,  and  the  tongue  of  Dean 
Swift,  he  could  knock  down  booksellers  and  silence 


200  INDOOR   STUDIES 

bargees;  he  was  melancholy  almost  to  madness, 
'  radically  wretched, '  indolent,  blinded,  diseased. 
Poverty  was  long  his  portion;  not  that  genteel  pov 
erty  that  is  sometimes  behindhand  with  its  rent, 
but  that  hungry  poverty  that  does  not  know  where 
to  look  for  its  dinner.  Against  all  these  things 
had  this  '  old  struggler  '  to  contend ;  over  all  these 
things  did  this  '  old  struggler  '  prevail.  Over  even 
the  fear  of  death,  the  giving  up  of  this  '  intellectual 
being, '  which  had  haunted  his  gloomy  fancy  for  a 
lifetime,  he  seems  finally  to  have  prevailed,  and  to 
have  met  his  end  as  a  brave  man  should." 

This  is  excellently  said,  and  is  true  enough. 
This  kind  of  victory  is  one  test  of  character  cer 
tainly  ;  but  if  it  is  the  highest  test  by  which  to  try 
a  man's  claims  to  greatness,  then  is  the  world  full 
of  silent  heroes  greater  than  either  Johnson  or 
Carlyle.  How  many  men  and  women  receive  an 
avalanche  of  the  ills  bf  life  upon  their  heads  and 
shoulders,  and  die  and  make  no  sign!  How  many 
nameless  "  old  strugglers  "  there  are  in  nearly  every 
community,  who  fight  a  losing  battle  with  fortune  all 
their  lives  and  utter  no  complaint !  And  it  is  not 
always,  or  commonly,  because  they  are  made  of 
pure  adamant:  it  is  oftener  because  they  are  stolid 
and  insensible.  If  stolidity  and  insensibility  are 
terms  too  strong  to  apply  to  Johnson,  yet  we  must 
admit  there  was  a  kind  of  dullness  and  sluggishness 
about  him,  which  he  in  vain  spurred  with  good 
resolutions,  and  which  shielded  him  from  the  acute 
suffering  that  Carlyle's  almost  preternatural  activ- 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  201 

ity  and  sensibility  laid  him  open  to.  If  a  man  is 
bom  constitutionally  unhappy,  as  both  these  men 
seem  to  have  been,  his  suffering  will  be  in  propor 
tion  to  the  strength  and  vividness  of  the  imagina 
tion;  and  Carlyle's  imagination,  compared  with 
Johnson's,  was  like  an  Arctic  night  with  its  stream 
ing  and  flashing  auroras,  compared  with  the  mid 
night  skies  of  Fleet  Street. 

Carlyle  fought  a  Giant  Despair  all  his  life,  and 
never  for  a  moment  gave  an  inch  of  ground.  In 
deed,  so  far  as  the  upshot  of  his  life  was  concerned, 
the  amount  of  work  actually  done,  and  its  value  as 
a  tonic  and  a  spur  to  noble  endeavor  of  all  kinds, 
it  is  as  if  he  had  fought  no  Giant  Despair  at  all, 
but  had  been  animated  and  sustained  by  the  most 
bright  and  buoyant  hopes.  The  reason  of  this 
probably  is  that  his  gloom  and  despair  'did  not  end 
in  mere  negation.  If  he  fulminated  an  Everlasting 
No,  he  also  fulminated  an  Everlasting  Yes.  John 
son  fought  many  lesser  devils,  such  as  moroseness, 
laziness,  irritability  of  temper,  gloominess,  and  ten 
dency  to  superstition,  etc.  "My  reigning  sin,"  he 
says  in  his  journal,  "to  which  perhaps  many  others 
are  appendant,  is  a  waste  of  time  and  general  slug 
gishness  to  which  I  was  always  inclined,  and,  in 
part  of  my  life,  have  been  almost  compelled  by 
morbid  melancholy  and  disturbance  of  mind.  Mel 
ancholy  has  had  in  me  its  paroxysms  and  remissions, 
but  I  have  not  improved  the  intervals,  nor  suffi 
ciently  resisted  my  natural  inclination,  or  sickly 
habits."  He  was  always  resolving  to  rise  at  eight 


202  INDOOR    STUDIES 

o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  does  not  seem  ever  to 
have  been  able  to  keep  the  resolution.  What  takes 
one  in  Johnson  is  his  serious  self-reproof  and  the 
perfect  good  faith  in  which  he  accuses  himself  of 
idleness,  forbidden  thoughts,  a  liking  for  strong 
liquors,  a  shirking  of  church-going,  and  kindred 
sins.  His  sense  of  duty,  and  in  particular  of  his 
duty,  never  slumbered  for  a  moment.  On  the  21st 
of  April,  1764,  he  got  up  at  three  in  the  morning 
to  accuse  himself  thus:  "My  indolence  since  my 
last  reception  of  the  Sacrament  has  sunk  into  grosser 
sluggishness,  and  my  dissipation  spread  into  wider 
negligence.  My  thoughts  have  been  clouded  with 
sensuality,  and,  except  that  from  the  beginning  of 
this  year  I  have  in  some  measure  forborne  excess  of 
strong  drink,  my  appetites  have  predominated  over 
my  reason.  A  kind  of  strange  oblivion  has  over 
spread  me,  so  that  I  know  not  what  has  become  of 
the  last  year,"  etc.  This  earthiness,  these  frailties 
of  Johnson  through  which  his  pious  hopes  and 
resolutions  shine  so  clearly,  is  a  touch  of  nature 
which  makes  him  kin  to  all  the  world.  Carlyle 
does  not  iouch  us  in  just  this  way,  because  his  ills 
are  more  imaginary  and  his  language  more  exag 
gerated.  What  takes  one  in  Carlyle  is  the  courage 
and  helpfulness  that  underlie  his  despair,  the  hu 
mility  that  underlies  his  arrogance,  the  love  and 
sympathy  that  lie  back  of  his  violent  objurgations 
and  in  a  way  prompt  them.  He  was  a  man  of  sor 
row,  and  felt  the  "burthen  and  the  mystery  of  all 
this  unintelligible  world  "  as  Johnson  never  felt  it, 
nor  ever  could  feel  it. 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  203 

Again,  Johnson  owed  much  more  to  his  times 
than  Carlyle  did  to  his.  Both  his  religion  and  his 
politics  were  the  religion  and  the  politics  of  his  age 
and  country,  and  they  were  like  ready-made  high 
ways  along  which  his  mind  and  soul  traveled.  In 
comparison,  Carlyle  was  adrift  in  the  wilderness, 
where  the  way  and  the  bridges  had  to  be  built  by 
himself.  What  gulfs  he  encountered,  what  quag 
mires  he  floundered  through!  Johnson  "stood  by 
the  old  formulas,"  says  Carlyle;  and  adds  signifi 
cantly,  "the  happier  was  it  for  him  that  he  could 
so  stand."  What  would  the  great  hulking  hypo 
chondriac  have  done  in  such  a  world  as  Carlyle  trav 
ersed,  the  ground  cut  clean  from  under  him  by 
German  thought  and  modern  science,  awful  depths 
opening  where  before  was  solid  earth? 

Johnson  has  survived  his  works.  Mr.  Birrell 
declares  very  emphatically  that  they  are  still  alive, 
and  are  likely  to  remain  so ;  but  the  specimens  he 
gives,  whether  of  prose  or  of  verse,  are  not  at  all 
reassuring.  But  our  interest  in  the  man  seems 
likely  to  be  perennial.  This  is  probably  because 
he  was  a  much  greater  and  more  picturesque  force 
personally  than  he  was  intellectually.  His  power 
was  of  a  kind  that  could  not  fully  be  brought  to 
bear  in  literature,  that  is  to  say,  he  is  greater  as  a 
talker  in  personal  encounter  than  in  his  writings,  or 
in  the  depth  of  his  thought.  He  said  that  "no 
man  but  a  blockhead  ever  wrote  except  for  money." 
But  the  man  who  writes  for  money  alone,  it  is 
pretty  sure,  will  not  make  a  deep  and  lasting  im- 


204  INDOOR   STUDIES 

pression  with  his  pen.  The  saying  is  like  another 
one  of  his, — namely,  that  "a  man  seldom  thinks 
with  more  earnestness  of  anything  than  he  does  of 
his  dinner."  When  Johnson  wrote  his  famous 
letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  it  is  safe  to  say  he  did 
not  write  for  money,  and  that  he  was  thinking  of 
something  more  earnestly  than  he  was  wont  to 
think  of  his  dinner;  and  it  is  the  one  piece  of  his 
prose  that  is  likely  to  live.  But  these  remarks  of 
his,  and  others  like  them  —  this,  for  instance,  that 
"great  abilities  are  not  requisite  for  an  historian; 
for  in  historical  composition  all  the  greatest  powers 
of  the  human  mind  are  quiescent, "  —  such  remarks, 
I  say,  of  themselves  show  his  limitations  in  the 
direction  of  literature.  Johnson  lives  through  Bos- 
well;  without  Boswell  his  fame  would  hardly  have 
reached  our  time,  except  as  a  faint  tradition.  In 
the  pages  of  his  biographer  the  actual  man  lives  for 
us;  we  can  almost  see  his  great  chest  heave,  and 
hear  the  terrible  "Sir!"  with  which  he  held  his 
interlocutor  at  good  striking  distance.  If  some 
Boswell  had  done  the  same  thing  for  Coleridge,  is 
it  probable  that  he  would  have  lived  in  the  same 
way  ?  I  think  not.  As  a  personality  Coleridge  was 
much  less  striking  and  impressive  than  Johnson. 
As  an  intellectual  force  he  is,  of  course,  much  more 
so.  But  it  is  hardly  possible  to  feel  a  deep  interest 
in  or  admiration  for  him  on  personal  grounds  alone. 
Is  it  possible  to  feel  as  deep  an  interest  in  and 
admiration  for  Carlyle,  apart  from  his  works,  as  we 
do  in  Johnson?  Different  temperaments  will  an- 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  205 

swer  differently.  Some  people  have  a  natural  anti 
pathy  to  Carlyle,  based  largely,  no  doubt,  on  mis 
conception.  But  misconception  is  much  easier  in 
his  case  than  in  Johnson's.  He  was  more  of  an 
exceptional  being.  He  was  pitched  in  too  high  a 
key  for  the  ordinary  uses  of  life.  He  had  fewer 
infirmities  than  Johnson,  moral  and  physical. 
Johnson  was  a  typical  Englishman,  and  appeals  to 
us  by  all  the  virtues  and  faults  of  his  race.  Car 
lyle  stands  more  isolated,  and  held  himself  much 
more  aloof  from  the  world.  On  this  account,  among 
others,  he  touches  us  less  nearly.  Women  are 
almost  invariably  repelled  by  Carlyle;  they  instinc 
tively  flee  from  a  certain  hard,  barren  masculinity 
in  him.  If  not  a  woman-hater,  he  certainly  had 
little  in  his  composition  that  responded  to  the 
charms  and  allurements  peculiar  to  the  opposite  sex ; 
while  Johnson's  idea  of  happiness  was  to  spend  his 
life  driving  briskly  in  a  postchaise  with  a  pretty 
and  intelligent  woman.  Both  men  had  the  same 
proud  independence,  the  same  fearless  gift  of 
speech,  the  same  deference  to  authority  or  love  of 
obedience.  In  personal  presence,  the  Englishman 
had  the  advantage  of  mere  physical  size,  breadth, 
and  a  stern  forbidding  countenance.  Johnson's 
power  was  undoubtedly  more  of  the  chest,  the 
stomach,  and  less  of  the  soul,  than  Carlyle's,  and 
was  more  of  a  blind,  groping,  unconscious  force; 
but  of  the  two  men  he  serins  the  more  innocent  and 
childlike.  His  journal  is  far  less  interesting  and 
valuable  as  literature  than  Carlyle's;  but  i»  some 


206  INDOOR    STUDIES 

way  his  fervent  prayers,  his  repeated  resolutions  to 
do  better,  to  conquer  his  laziness,  "to  consult  the 
resolve  on  Tetty's  coffin,"  "to  go  to  church,"  "to 
drink  less  strong  liquors,"  "to  get  up  at  eight 
o'clock,"  "to  reject  or  expel  sensual  images  and  idle 
thoughts,"  "to  read  the  Scriptures,"  etc.,  touch  one 
more  nearly  than  Carlyle's  exaggerated  self-re 
proaches  and  loud  bemoanings  of  the  miseries  of 
life.  Yet  the  fact  remains  that  Johnson  lived  and 
moved  and  thought  on  a  lower  plane  than  Carlyle, 
and  that  he  cherished  less  lofty  ideals  of  life  and  of 
duty.  It  is  probably  true,  also,  that  his  presence 
and  his  conversation  made  less  impression  on  his 
contemporaries  than  did  Carlyle's;  but,  through 
the  wonderful  Boswell,  a  livelier,  more  lovable, 
and  more  real  image  of  him  is  likely  to  go  down  to 
succeeding  ages  than  of  the  great  Scotchman  through 
his  biographer. 

in 

LITTLE   SPOONS   VS.   BIG    SPOONS 

When  I  was  in  England,  whether  in  lodgings  or 
in  a  hotel,  one  of  the  hardest  things  to  get  at  table 
was  a  teaspoon  to  eat  my  dessert  or  sweetmeats  with. 
They  always  brought  a  dessert  spoon,  which  usually 
seems  large  and  awkward  to  the  American  mouth. 
Neither  were  there  any  small  dishes,  such  as  we 
have  at  home.  They  brought  you  jam,  or  preserves, 
or  strawberries,  on  a  plate  as  large  as  a  dinner  plate. 
This  fact  would  not  be  worth  mentioning,  were  it 
not  characteristic  of  much  one  sees  there.  In  Eng- 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  207 

land,  nearly  all  the  arts  and  appliances  of  life  show, 
to  American  eyes,  a  superabundance  of  material. 
There  is  more  timber  and  iron  in  the  wagon,  more 
bulk  in  the  horse  that  draws  the  wagon,  and  more 
leather  in  the  harness  the  horse  wears.  Yes,  and 
more  hair  in  the  horse's  coat.  Our  domestic  ani 
mals,  our  tools,  our  vehicles,  our  architecture,  and 
our  women  look  trim  and  slim  compared  with  the 
English.  There  is  probably  material  enough  in  an 
English  van  to  make  two  of  our  farm  wagons.  It 
is  a  sight  to  behold.  It  looks  like  a  pontoon  boat 
mounted  upon  huge  artillery  wheels.  It  is  usually 
drawn  by  three  horses  tandem,  with  a  boy  walking 
by  their  side  or  riding  the  foremost.  It  would  be 
quite  useless  in  this  country,  as  on  our  poorly  made 
dirt  roads  it  would  be  a  load  in  itself.  The  run 
ning  works  of  the  English  dog-cart,  a  pleasure 
vehicle,  would  be  considered  nearly  heavy  enough 
for  a  light  farm-cart  in  this  country.  Easy  roads 
and  heavy  vehicles  are  the  rule  in  England,  and 
poor  roads  and  light  vehicles  with  us.  John  Bull 
would  hardly  trust  himself  in  our  cobweb  "bug 
gies;"  certainly  not  upon  our  outlandish  roads.  He 
does  not  know  the  virtues  of  hickory,  a  tree  na 
tive  to  this  country.  Hickory  gives  us  the  most 
strength  with  the  least  bulk,  and  this  is  no  doubt 
one  reason  of  the  lightness  and  slenderness  of  our 
tools  and  vehicles.  Compare  an  English  axe  with 
an  American  axe:  how  crude  and  awkward  the 
former  looks  beside  the  latter;  how  shapely  our 
tool  is !  Our  tools  suggest  a  more  deft  and  supple 


208  INDOOR   STUDIES 

and  a  lighter  race.  The  tendency  in  us  to  pare 
down  and  cut  away  every  superfluous  ounce  is  very 
marked.  We  are  great  whittlers.  Have  we  not 
whittled  away  at  the  hulls  of  our  ships  until  we 
have  made  the  swiftest  sailing  vessels  in  the  world? 

The  English,  in  most  things,  seem  to  like  the 
look  of  mass  and  strength;  we  like  best  the  look  of 
lightness  and  speed.  Even  the  type  in  which  their 
books,  newspapers,  and  magazines  are  printed  is 
larger  than  the  type  in  which  ours  are  printed. 
Indeed,  it  would  seem  as  if  there  was  not  room 
enough  in  our  great  country  for  generous-sized  type'. 
English  houses  and  other  buildings  all  have  a  look 
of  greater  solidity  than  ours ;  their  walls  are  thicker, 
their  tiles  heavier.  What  would  they  think  of  our 
balloon  frames  over  there  ?  What  would  our  grand 
fathers  think  of  them  1  Dickens  said  the  houses  in 
this  country  looked  as  if  made  of  pasteboard. 

This  lightness  and  airiness  is  becoming  a  fixed 
national  trait,  and  is  in  keeping  with  the  general 
tendency  of  all  natural  forms  in  this  country. 
Nearly  all  organic  growths  here  show  greater  refine 
ment  of  form  than  in  the  British  Isles.  Our  wild 
flowers  are  more  graceful  and  delicate.  Our  climb 
ing  plants,  the  foliage  of  our  trees,  the  trees  them 
selves,  our  grasses  and  wild  weedy  growths,  are  all 
more  slender  and  fluent  in  form  than  the  correspond 
ing  English  species.  English  trees,  English  groves, 
have  a  wonderful  expression  of  solidity  and  repose. 
The  leaves  are  larger  and  stiff er,  and  adjust  them 
selves  with  more  ease  to  the  fainter  light.  Even 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  209 

the  British  bumblebee  is  a  coarser  and  more  hairy 
creature  than  ours;  and  the  fox  and  the  squirrel,  as 
well  as  the  domestic  animals,  are  less  sleek  and 
trim  than  with  us.  Our  bright,  sharp  climate  has 
its  effect  upon  all  things,  but  it  is  only  up  to  a 
certain  point  that  this  effect  is  matter  for  con 
gratulation.  All  European  forms  are  refined  here, 
but  presently  there  is  danger  that  they  may  become 
attenuated  and  weakened.  The  children  of  Euro 
pean  parents  born  here  —  Irish,  English,  German 
—  are,  as  a  rule,  much  more  shapely  and  clear-cut 
in  feature  than  when  born  in  the  same  rank  of 
life  in  Europe.  But  they  are  less  robust  and  virile, 
especially  the  girls;  while,  probably,  the  next  gen 
eration  will  be  still  less  so.  Here  comes  in  the 
setback.  What  appears  to  be  the  most  serious  dan 
ger  now  threatening  the  American  race  is  just  this 
tendency  to  over-refinement,  and  the  consequent 
failure  in  reproduction. 

This  tendency  has  set  its  stamp  upon  our  men 
tality,  so  that  our  literary  and  scientific  works,  and 
all  the  varied  outcomes  of  our  mental  life,  are  char 
acterized  by  clearness,  quickness,  aptness,  rather 
than  by  force,  or  depth,  or  real  mastery.  Our  lit 
erature,  as  such,  has  less  bulk  than  the  English  or 
German,  less  body  and  more  grace  and  refinement. 
Compare  Emerson  with  Carlyle,  or  Fiske  with 
Spencer,  or  Hawthorne  with  Scott,  or  Prescott 
with  Macaulay,  or  Howells  with  George  Eliot.  Up 
to  a  certain  point  this  deftness  and  clearness  of 
our  authors  gives  them  the  advantage;  but  when 


210  INDOOR   STUDIES 

great  tasks  are  to  be  undertaken,  our  lightness  and 
brightness  are  less  telling.  Our  second  considerable 
crop  of  authors,  born  (say)  since  1825,  has  less 
force,  less  body,  less  breadth,  than  our  first  great 
crop,  which  included  Cooper,  Bryant,  Irving,  Emer 
son,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  etc.  There  are  things 
in  Stedman  that  have  the  old  breadth  and  generos 
ity,  but  there  are  not  enough  of  them.  It  seems 
to  me  that  we  are  refining  now  at  the  expense  of 
strength.  Our  poets  and  critics,  like  our  "bug 
gies  "  and  pleasure  vehicles,  lack  timber,  lack  mass. 
Our  popular  novelists  have  point  but  lack  body. 
The  workmanship  is  admirable,  but  the  material 
upon  which  it  is  expended  is  abominable.  What 
a  boon  to  them  would  be  a  little  of  Scott's  or 
Dickens 's  power  and  heartiness,  or  of  Turgdnef  s 
grasp  of  the  fundamental  human  qualities!  The 
men  and  women  turned  out  are  by  no  means  the 
equal  of  those  one  meets  daily  among  all  ranks  of 
the  people,  except  perhaps  in  the  single  qualities  of 
wit  and  "smartness."  The  rank,  primary,  inarticu 
late  human  qualities  are  suffering  decay  among  us; 
there  can  be  little  doubt  of  that.  Probably  they 
are  suffering  —  or  are  threatened  with  —  the  same 
decay  in  Europe.  A  cheap  press,  much  and  hasty 
reading,  rapid  communication,  tend  to  give  us  sur 
face  dominion  without  corresponding  depth. 

Yet,  as  contrasted  with  the  American,  the  Eng 
lishman  reaps  great  advantage  in  his  greater  stolid 
ity,  inertia,  mass,  depth  of  character,  because  these 
things  make  a  solid  ground  to  build  upon;  and 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  211 

when  faculty  and  insight  are  added,  they  give  that 
'  weight  and  force  which  have  made  the  English  race 
what  it  is.  There  is  one  notable  exception  in  our 
later  literature  to  this  American  tendency  to  over- 
refinement  of  form,  which  I  am  not  likely  to  for 
get;  and  that  is  furnished  by  Walt  Whitman. 
Mass  and  strength,  and  all  the  primary  qualities  of 
both  body  and  mind,  are  fully  attended  to  by  him. 
Probably  this,  more  than  anything  else,  is  the  rea 
son  why  his  poems  are  so  distasteful  to  the  majority 
of  his  countrymen,  and  why  his  reception  abroad 
has  been  more  cordial  than  at  home.  It  is,  at  any 
rate,  the  ground  upon  which  his  appearance  in  our 
literature  has  always  been  regarded  by  myself  as  so 
suggestive  and  so  welcome. 

IV 

THE   ETHICS   OF   WAR 

Why  is  it  that  we  look  so  much  more  compla 
cently  upon  war,  upon  a  fight  between  two  nations, 
than  we  do  upon  a  fight  between  two  individuals  ? 
If  my  neighbor  and  I  have  a  difficulty  or  a  misun 
derstanding  and  proceed  to  settle  it  with  clubs,  or 
pistols,  or  with  our  fists,  in  the  opinion  of  all 
decent  people  we  behave  shamefully,  wickedly,  and 
reduce  ourselves  to  a  level  with  the  brutes.  But 
when  nations  settle  their  difficulties  by  an  appeal  to 
arms,  and  thousands  upon  thousands  of  lives  are 
sacrificed,  and  millions  upon  millions  of  treasure 
squandered,  we  take  quite  a  different  view  of  the 
matter.  We  may  say,  "What  a  pity!  "  or  "How. 


212  INDOOR    STUDIES 

unwise !  "  but  we  do  not  experience  the  same  feel 
ing  of  contempt  and  disgust  that  we  do  in  the  case 
of  personal  encounters  brought  about  by  like  provo 
cation.  If  two  men  of  rival  trades  or  interests 
came  into  collision,  and  the  victor  robbed  the  other 
of  his  purse  to  indemnify  himself  for  his  scratches 
and  bruises  and  torn  clothes,  he  would  at  once  for 
feit  any  sympathy  and  respect  which  the  justness  of 
his  cause  might  have  inspired  in  the  spectators. 
Instead  of  a  hero  we  should  look  upon  him  as  a 
robber.  Yet  Germany  beats  France  in  battle,  and 
indemnifies  herself  for  her  bruises  and  torn  clothes 
by  a  large  slice  of  French  territory  and  many  mil 
lions  of  French  treasure,  and  we  do  not  feel  that 
she  has  sacrificed  her  honor.  Does  might  make 
right  between  nations,  while  the  principle  will  not 
hold  good  at  all  as  between  individuals? 

It  is  certainly  true  that  we  do  not  apply  the  same 
standard  of  morality  in  the  one  case  that  we  do  in 
the  other,  —  certainly  true  that  we  do  not  look  for 
the  same  acts  of  generosity  or  magnanimity  between 
nations  that  we  expect  to  be  shown  between  neigh 
bors.  Nations  are  invariably  selfish,  and  they  are 
rarely  as  honest  as  their  individual  citizens.  Legis 
lative  bodies  have  deliberately  done  things,  or  re 
frained  from  doing  things,  that  the  individual  mem 
bers  composing  them  would  blush  to  be  found  guilty 
of.  What  meanness,  narrowness,  selfishness,  has 
not  England  been  guilty  of  ?  and  yet  the  individual 
Englishman  is  by  no  means  insensible  to  the  obliga 
tions  of  truth  and  fair  play.  States  and  communi* 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  213 

ties  in  this  country  have  repudiated  their  honest 
debts  in  a  way  that  would  have  ruined  the  standing 
of  any  business  man  in  them  had  he  resorted  to  the 
same  trick  to  defraud  his  creditors.  The  American 
Congress  had  for  more  than  fifty  years  behaved  in 
the  most  shameful  and  dishonest  manner  in  refusing 
to  authorize  the  payment  of  the  French  spoliation 
claims.  The  precepts  of  religion  have  had  little  or 
no  influence  upon  the  policy  of  nations.  Love  your 
neighbor  as  yourself;  do  unto  others  as  you  would 
that  others  should  do  unto  you;  think  no  evil, 
etc. ,  —  what  should  we  think  if  governments  acted 
upon  these  principles  ?  Is  the  nation,  then,  a  rem 
nant  of  barbarism  that  the  moral  law  should  not 
apply  to  it  ?  that  religion  should  not  affect  it  ? 

It  is  because  nations  are  not  as  civilized  as  indi 
viduals,  and,  probably,  never  will  be,  that  war  is 
still  possible.  The  nation  is  still  the  tribe,  and 
the  tribal  instincts  for  self-preservation  are  still 
active;  tribal  jealousies  and  animosities  are  still 
easily  kindled.  Our  admiration  for  war  is  the  same 
as  our  admiration  for  the  virtues  of  the  stern  heroic 
ages,  —  courage,  self-sacrifice,  contempt  of  death, 
personal  prowess,  great  leadership.  The  nation,  as 
such,  still  rests  upon  these  qualities.  Genius  and 
power  always  take  us,  and  war  is  a  great  field  for 
the  display  of  genius  and  power. 

All  readers  of  "  Sartor  Kcsartus  "  will  remember 
the  striking,  though  not  quite  just,  light  in  which 
Carlyle  sets  war :  — 

"What,  speaking  in  quite  unofficial  language,  is 


214  INDOOR   STUDIES 

the  net  purpose  and  upshot  of  war?  To  my  own 
knowledge,  for  example,  there  dwell  and  toil  in  the 
British  village  of  Dumdrudge  usually  some  five 
hundred  souls.  From  these,  by  certain  natural 
enemies  of  the  French,  there  are  successively  se 
lected  during  the  French  war,  say  thirty  able-bodied 
men.  Dumdrudge,  at  her  own  expense,  has  suckled 
and  nursed  them;  she  has,  not  without  difficulty 
and  sorrow,  fed  them  up  to  manhood,  and  even 
trained  them  to  crafts,  so  that  one  can  weave,  an 
other  build,  another  hammer,  and  the  weakest  can 
stand  under  thirty  stone  avoirdupois.  Neverthe 
less,  amid  much  weeping  and  swearing,  they  are 
selected;  all  dressed  in  red,  and  shipped  away  on 
the  public  charges  some  two  thousand  miles,  or  say 
only  to  the  south  of  Spain;  and  fed  there  till 
wanted.  And  now  to  that  same  spot  in  the  south 
of  Spain  are  thirty  similar  French  artisans,  from  a 
French  Dumdrudge,  in  like  manner  wending;  till 
at  length,  after  infinite  effort,  the  two  parties  come 
into  actual  juxtaposition ;  and  thirty  stands  fronting 
thirty,  each  with  a  gun  in  his  hand.  Straightway 
the  word  '  Fire !  '  is  given ;  and  they  blow  the  souls 
out  of  one  another;  and  in  place  of  sixty  brisk, 
useful  craftsmen,  the  world  has  sixty  dead  carcasses 
which  it  must  bury  and  anew  shed  tears  for.  Had 
these  men  any  quarrel?  Busy  as  the  devil  is,  not 
the  smallest!  They  lived  far  enough  apart;  were 
the  entirest  strangers;  nay,  in  so  wide  a  universe, 
there  was  even,  unconsciously,  by  Commerce,  some 
mutual  helpfulness  between  them.  How  then? 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  215 

Simpleton!  their  Governors  had  fallen  out;  and, 
instead  of  shooting  one  another,  had  the  cunning 
to  make  these  poor  blockheads  shoot.7' 

This  is  very  witty,  but  is  it  a  true  picture  of 
modern  war?  The  Governors  of  these  sixty  men 
had  not  fallen  out;  they  had  no  personal  quarrel; 
they  may  even  have  had  a  warm  feeling  of  friend 
ship  for  each  other;  it  was  in  their  representative 
capacities  that  they  had  a  quarrel ;  the  two  nations 
quarreled  through  them,  and  it  is  fit  the  two  nations 
should  send  men  to  fight  it  out,  and  that  the  Gov 
ernors  themselves  should  keep  out  of  harm's  way. 
It  is  the  narrow  feeling  of  patriotism,  of  sectional 
ism,  and  race  prejudices  that  make  wars  possible. 
The  European  nations  are  jealous  and  suspicious  of 
each  other,  like  African  tribes.  Did  they  all  form 
one  federation,  and  see  that  the  best  interests  of 
one  were  in  the  end  the  best  interests  of  all,  war 
between  them  would  be  impossible. 

Our  admiration  for  war,  then,  is  a  mixed  feeling, 
in  some  of  its  elements  laudable,  in  others  question 
able.  Our  love  of  the  heroic  overrides  our  humani 
tarian  feelings;  our  attraction  for  power  blunts  our 
sense  of  right.  If  a  man  steals  a  chicken  we  hold 
him  in  contempt,  but  if  he  steals  a  railroad  we  feel 
quite  differently  toward  him.  Anybody  can  rob 
a  henroost,  but  it  requires  a  genius  and  capacity 
to  steal  a  great  corporate  interest.  But  there  are 
grounds  upon  which  our  admiration  for  war  is  laud 
able.  In  the  first  place  war  is  not  personal,  as  a 
quarrel  between  individuals  is;  the  personal  feel- 


216  INDOOR   STUDIES 

ings  of  anger,  hatred,  etc.,  which  brutalize  men  in 
personal  conflicts,  are  not  appealed  to.  It  is  a 
school  of  discipline  in  all  the  more  manly  and 
heroic  virtues.  It  begets  courage,  coolness,  self- 
control.  It  is  a  great  game  between  great  forces, 
in  which  the  clearest  and  longest  heads  win.  It 
fosters  patriotism  and  the  feeling  of  nationality. 
It  is  said  of  certain  African  tribes  that  those  that 
are  the  most  warlike  as  nations  are  the  least  so  as 
individuals,  and  vice  versa.  Quarrelsome  and  vin 
dictive  men  do  not  make  good  soldiers.  The  most 
peaceable  and  high-minded  make  the  best.  The 
more  brutal  qualities  that  seek  personal  encounter 
are  not  the  qualities  that  inspire  a  great  soldiery. 
It  is  not  an  encounter  between  men  wherein  one 
seeks  in  a  passion  of  anger  to  overthrow  the  other 
and  aggrandize  himself;  it  is  a  collision  of  the  great 
forces  that  rule  men.  Moral  force  does  as  much, 
or  more,  than  physical  force.  The  great  passion  or 
inspiration  of  heroism  has  play;  men  are  called  on 
to  face  great  odds;  they  are  called  upon  to  offer 
their  lives  for  others.  Men  who  lead  a  charge  and 
do  not  flinch  or  turn  back  have  achieved  the  noblest 
victory  over  themselves,  whether  they  break  the 
enemy  or  not.  The  element  of  destiny  conies  in. 
Large  bodies  of  men  are  subject  to  laws  and  condi 
tions  that  touch  not  the  individual.  Their  wrath 
is  not  as  the  wrath  of  a  man;  their  blood-shedding 
is  not  as  the  crime  of  a  person.  So  many  elements 
enter  into  a  great  battle  beside  the  personal  element ; 
all  the  forces  of  nature  take  part.  It  often  hap. 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  217 

pened  in  the  ancient  wars  that  the  army  was  de 
feated  that  had  the  sun  in  its  eyes.  Often  some 
false  rumor,  some  accidental  cry,  turns  the  tide. 
The  morale  of  an  army  is  everything:  faith  in 
their  general  and  in  the  justness  of  their  cause,  — 
there  are  no  reinforcements  like  these.  Indeed, 
every  impulse  that  is  manly  and  noble  and  elevating 
tells  tremendously  in  war. 

These  are  perhaps  some  of  the  considerations  that 
lead  us  to  judge  war  between  nations  by  a  different 
standard  from  the  one  we  apply  to  individual  en 
counters.  It  has  not  the  demoralizing  element  of 
base  anger.  There  must  be  something  that  vastly 
more  than  offsets  the  brutal  element  in  it,  else  the 
good  could  never  have  flowed  from  it  that  we  know 
has  flowed.  Men  who  settle  their  differences  by 
blows  and  blood  are  always  the  worse  for  it.  But 
nations  are  often  the  better  for  it.  It  sets  new  and 
larger  currents  going.  The  nation  is  above  the  in 
dividual,  and  the  national  life  is  often  cemented 
and  strengthened  by  the  blood  of  the  best  citizens. 


SOLITUDE 

Emerson  says,  "Now  and  then  a  man  exquisitely 
made  can  live  alone,  and  must;  but  coop  up  most 
men  and  you  undo  them."  Solitude  tries  a  man  in 
a  way  society  does  not;  it  throws  him  upon  his 
own  resources,  and  if  these  resources  be  meagre,  if 
the  ground  he  occupies  in  and  of  himself  be  poor 
and  narrow,  he  will  have  a  sorry  time  of  it.  Hence 


218  INDOOR    STUDIES 

we  readily  attribute  some  extra  virtue  to  those 
persons  who  voluntarily  embrace  solitude,  who  live 
alone  in  the  country  or  in  the  woods,  or  in  the 
mountains,  and  find  life  sweet.  We  know  they 
cannot  live  without  converse,  without  society  of 
some  sort,  and  we  credit  them  with  the  power  of 
invoking  it  from  themselves,  or  else  of  finding  more 
companionship  with  dumb  things  than  ordinary 
mortals.  In  any  case  they  give  evidence  of  re 
sources  which  all  do  not  possess.  If  not  "exqui 
sitely  made,"  hermits  generally  have  a  fine  streak 
in  them,  which  preserves  them  in  solitude.  If  a 
man  wants  to  get  away  from  himself  or  from  a 
guilty  conscience  he  does  not  retreat  into  the  coun 
try,  he  flees  to  the  town.  If  he  is  empty,  the  town 
will  fill  him;  if  he  is  idle,  the  town  will  amuse 
him;  if  he  is  vain,  here  is  a  field  for  his  vanity; 
if  he  is  ambitious,  here  are  dupes  waiting  to  be 
played  upon;  but  if  he  is  an  honest  man,  here  he 
will  have  a  struggle  to  preserve  his  integrity.  The 
rapid  growth  of  cities  in  our  time  has  its  dark  side. 
Every  man  who  has  a  demon  to  flee  from,  a  vice  to 
indulge,  an  itching  for  notoriety  to  allay,  money  to 
squander,  or  a  dream  of  sudden  wealth  to  cherish, 
flees  to  the  city,  and,  as  most  persons  have  one  or 
the  other  of  these  things,  the  city  outstrips  the 
country.  It  is  thought  that  the  more  a  man  is 
civilized,  the  more  his  tastes  are  refined,  the  more 
he  will  crave  city  life  and  the  more  benefit  he  will 
get  from  it.  But  this  may  be  questioned.  It  is 
not,  as  a  rule,  a  refined  taste  that  takes  men  to 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  219 

cities,  but  a  craving  for  a  vain  superficial  elegance, 
the  pride  of  dress,  of  equipage,  of  fashion,  of  fast 
living,  and  the  shams  and  follies  of  the  world. 
The  more  simple  and  refined  taste  loves  the  serious' 
ness  and  sobriety  of  the  country. 

People  find  country  life  dull  because  they  are 
empty  and  frivolous;  having  only  themselves  on 
their  hands,  they  can  extract  no  entertainment  from 
such  a  subject.  How  can  a  man  profitably  com 
mune  with  himself  if  the  self  is  small  and  frivolous 
and  unworthy  ?  He  will  not  go  to  his  own  garden 
for  fruit  if  there  be  only  thorns  there. 

The  finest  spirits  are  not  gregarious;  they  do  not 
love  a  crowd.  Crows  and  wolves  go  in  flocks  and 
packs,  but  the  eagle  and  the  lion  are  solitary  in 
their  habits. 

Solitude  is  not  for  the  young;  the  young  have 
no  thoughts  or  experience,  but  only  unsatisfied  de 
sires;  it  is  for  the  middle-aged  and  the  old,  for 
a  man  when  he  has  ripened  and  wants  time  to  mel 
low  his  thoughts.  A  man  who  retires  into  solitude 
must  have  a  capital  of  thought  and  experience  to 
live  upon,  or  his  soul  will  perish  of  want.  This 
capital  must  be  reinvested  in  the  things  about  him, 
or  it  will  not  suffice.  Either  as  a  farmer  or  as  a 
student  and  lover  of  nature,  or  as  both,  can  he  live 
as  it  were  on  the  interest  of  his  stored-up  wisdom. 

"There  are  things  that  never  show  themselves 
till  you  are  alone,'"'  said  an  old  recluse  in  Mexico 
to  an  American  traveler  who  had  claimed  the  hos 
pitality  of  his  hut;  "but  if  you  once  make  up  your 


220  INDOOR    STUDIES 

mind  that  there  is  no  harm  in  them,  you  find  out 
that  they  are  pretty  good  company."  The  old  re 
cluse  knew  what  he  was  saying.  Things  do  show 
themselves  when  one  is  alone;  they  emerge  on  all 
sides;  they  come  in  troops  from  all  points  of  the 
compass,  and  one  is  only  master  of  the  situation 
when  he  can  make  good  company  of  them.  How 
your  misdeeds  find  you  out!  the  still  small  voice  of 
conscience,  which  you  could  not  hear  amid  the  roar 
of  the  town,  makes  itself  heard  now;  all  the  past 
beleaguers  you,  —  whether  with  an  army  of  angels  or 
of  demons,  depends  upon  what  your  past  has  been. 

The  old  recluse  above  referred  to,  the  traveler 
found  living  in  a  hut  alone  in  the  mountains.  He 
had  lived  there  many  years,  with  no  companionship 
but  his  dogs.  An  Irishman  by  birth,  he  had  tried 
many  parts  of  the  world,  and  seen  many  phases  of 
life,  and  had  at  last  found  his  place  in  the  solitude 
of  the  Mexican  mountains.  He  had  learned  the 
art  of  dreaming  with  his  eyes  open,  which  is  the 
charm  of  solitude.  A  man  who  cannot  dream  with 
his  eyes  open  had  better  not  court  solitude.  Such 
an  old  dreamer  was  found  the  other  day  by  some 
railroad  surveyors  on  a  mountain  in  North  Carolina. 
He  had  lived  there  in  his  hut  for  fifty  years.  He, 
too,  had  for  companion  a  dog.  If  Thoreau  had 
made  friends  with  a  dog  to  share  his  bed  and  board 
in  his  retreat  by  Walden  Pond,  one  would  have 
had  more  faith  in  his  sincerity.  The  dog  would 
have  been  the  seal  and  authentication  of  his  retreat. 
A  man  who  has  no  heart  for  a  dog,  —  how  can  he 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  221 

have  a  heart  for  Nature  herself  ?  For  many  reasons 
women  seldom  voluntarily  face  solitude,  but  in  my 
boyhood  I  knew  an  aged  widow  who  lived  all  alone 
on  her  little  farm,  in  her  little  brown  house,  for 
many  years.  She  kept  five  or  six  cows,  which  she 
took  care  of  herself  winter  and  summer.  She  hired 
her  hay  gathered,  her  wood  cut,  and  that  was  all. 
She  was  a  gentle  and  pious  little  woman,  and  her 
house  was  as  neat  as  a  pin.  But  think  of  those 
long  years  of  solitary  life;  the  nights,  the  morn 
ings,  the  meals,  the  Sundays,  the  week  days,  and 
no  sound  but  what  you  made  yourself!  How  inti 
mately  acquainted  with  one's  self  one  must  become 
in  such  a  life!  If  one's  self  was  not  a  pretty  good 
fellow,  how  cordially  one  would  learn  to  dislike  his 
company !  One  Sunday,  as  my  people  were  passing 
the  house  on  their  way  to  church,  they  saw  her 
washing.  "Hello,  Aunt  Debby!  don't  you  know 
it  is  Sunday  ?  "  Behold  the  consternation  of  the 
old  dame!  She  had  lost  her  reckoning,  and  had 
kept  Sabbath  on  Saturday.  The  last  time  I  passed 
that  way  I  saw  only  a  little  grassy  mound  where 
Aunt  Debby 's  house  used  to  stand. 

The  poet  of  solitude  is  Wordsworth.  What  a 
sense  of  the  privacy  of  fields  and  woods  there  is 
over  all  his  poetry;  what  stillness,  what  lonesome 
dells,  what  sounds  of  distant  waterfalls!  How 
fondly  he  lingers  upon  the  simple  objects  of  nature, 
upon  rural  scenes  and  events,  and  how  perpetually 
he  returns  upon  his  own  heart !  His  companionship 
with  hills  and  trees  and  rocks  and  shepherds  does 


222  INDOOR   STUDIES 

not  relieve,  but  rather  sets  off,  his  loneliness.  He 
is  encompassed  with  solitude  wherever  he  goes :  — 

"  In  November  days, 

When  vapors  rolling  down  the  valley  make 
A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome ;  among  woods 
At  noon;  and  mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 
When  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake, 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills  I  homeward  went 
In  solitude;" 

and  has  the  same  sweet  and  fruitful  fellowship 
with  nature  and  with  his  own  heart.  In  his  "A 
Poet's  Epitaph  "  he  has  drawn  his  own  portrait:  — 

"  He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 

Or  fountain  in  a  noonday  grove; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

"  The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

"In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 

Some  random  truths  he  can  impart,  — 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart." 

Wordsworth  was  solitary  because  of  his  profound 
seriousness,  and  because  great  thoughts  or  deep  emo 
tions  always  create  a  solitude  of  their  own.  What 
is  communing  with  nature  but  communing  with 
ourselves  ?  Nature  gives  back  our  thoughts  and 
feelings,  as  we  see  our  faces  reflected  in  a  pool. 
Wordsworth  found  himself  whenever  he  walked; 
all  nature  was  Wordsworthian.  Another  man  of 
equal  profundity  and  sympathy  finds  nature  stamped 
with  his  image. 


BRIEF    ESSAYS  223 

Wordsworth  felt  akin  to  all  solitary  things;  he 
is  drawn  by  every  recluse  and  wanderer;  he  loves 
to  contemplate  beggars,  and  dwellers  or  watchers  in 
secluded  dells,  and  to  sing  the  praises  of  "The  Soli 
tary  Reaper."  A  solitary  flower,  a  solitary  scene 
of  almost  any  kind,  never  failed  to  move  him. 
What  a  charm  of  seclusion  in  the  poem  begin 
ning,  — 

"  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills." 

Or  in  this  other,  — 

"I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 
While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined 
In  that  sweet  mood  where  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind." 

Or  again  in  this  immortal  song,  — 

"  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love : 

"  A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye; 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky." 

Before  Wordsworth,  solitude  had  a  lover  and  poet 
in  Abraham  Cowley.  Through  nearly  all  his  essays 
there  runs  a  desire  to  escape  from  the  world,  and  to 
be  alone  with  nature  and  with  his  own  thoughts. 
And  who  has  better  expressed  this  desire  and  the 
satisfaction  which  its  fulfillment  brings  ?  He  longed 
for  the  country  as  an  exile  longs  for  home.  He 
says  to  Evelyn  that  he  had  never  had  any  other 
desire  so  strong  and  so  like  to  covetousness  as  the 


224  INDOOR    STUDIES 

one  he  had  always  had,  namely,  to  be  master  at 
last  of  a  small  house  and  a  large  garden,  with  very 
moderate  conveniences  joined  to  them,  and  there  to 
dedicate  the  remainder  of  his  life  only  to  the  cul 
ture  of  them  and  to  the  study  of  nature. 

He  says:  "As  far  as  my  memory  can  return  back 
into  my  past  life,  before  I  knew  or  was  capable  of 
guessing  what  the  world  or  the  glories  or  business 
of  it  were,  the  natural  affections  of  my  soul  gave 
me  a  secret  bent  of  aversion  from  them.7'  When 
he  was  a  boy  at  school  he  was  wont  to  leave  his 
play-fellows,  and  walk  alone  into  the  fields.  How 
charmingly  he  praises  "Obscurity,"  and  how  pun- 
gently  he  sets  forth  the  "Dangers  of  an  honest  man 
in  much  company !  " 

He  knew  well  the  virtues  which  solitude  necessi 
tated  and  implied. 

"The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  neither  he  who 
is  a  fop  in  the  world  is  a  fit  man  to  be  alone;  nor 
he  who  has  set  his  heart  much  upon  the  world, 
though  he  have  never  so  much  understanding:  so 
that  solitude  can  be  well  fitted  and  sit  right  but 
upon  a  very  few  persons.  They  must  have  enough 
knowledge  of  the  world  to  see  the  vanity  of  it,  and 
enough  virtue  to  despise  all  vanity ;  if  the  mind  be 
possessed  with  any  lust  or  passion,  a  man  had  better 
be  in  a  fair  than  in  a  wood  alone. " 

But,  after  all  has  been  said  about  the  solitude  of 
nature,  that  is  the  best  solitude  that  comes  clothed 
in  the  human  form,  —  your  friend,  your  other  self, 
who  leaves  you  alone,  yet  cheers  you;  who  peoples 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  225 

your  house  or  your  field  and  wood  with  tender  re 
membrances;  who  stands  between  your  yearning 
heart  and  the  great  outward  void  that  you  try  in 
vain  to  warm  and  fill;  who  in  his  own  person  and 
spirit  clothes  for  you,  and  endows  with  tangible 
form,  all  the  attractions  and  subtle  relations  and 
meanings  that  draw  you  to  the  woods  and  fields. 
What  the  brooks  and  the  trees  and  the  birds  said 
so  faintly  and  vaguely,  he  speaks  with  warmth  and 
directness.  Indeed,  your  friend  complements  and 
completes  your  solitude,  and  you  experience  its 
charm  without  its  desolation.  I  cannot,  therefore, 
agree  with  Marvell  that 

"  Two  paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  paradise  alone." 

I  should  want  at  least  my  friend  to  share  it  with  me. 

VI 
AN  OPEN   DOOR 

How  the  revelations  of  science  do  break  in  upon 
the  sort  of  private  and  domestic  view  of  the  uni 
verse  which  mankind  have  so  long  held !  To  many 
minds  it  is  like  being  fairly  turned  out  into  the 
cold,  and  made  to  face  without  shield  or  shelter  the 
eternities  and  the  infinities  of  geologic  time  and 
sidereal  space.  We  are  no  longer  cozily  housed  in 
pretty  little  anthropomorphic  views  of  things.  The 
universe  is  no  longer  a  theatre  constructed  expressly 
for  the  drama  oi  man's  life  and  salvation.  The 
race  of  man  becomes  the  mere  ephemera  of  an  hour, 
like  insects  of  a  summer  day.  In  an  hour  of  the 


226  INDOOR   STUDIES 

summer  of  the  earth's  geologic  history  he  appears, 
and  in  an  hour  he  is  gone ;  a  few  hours  more  and 
all  is  gone,  and  the  earth  itself  is  frozen  into  the 
everlasting  death  and  night  of  the  winter  of  the 
solar  system.  Science  says  in  just  so  many  words, 
"there  is  no  reason  to  deny  the  final  cessation  of 
the  sun's  activity,  and  the  consequent  death  of  the 
system. " 

Our  hearts,  our  affections,  all  our  peculiarly  hu 
man  attributes,  draw  back  from  many  of  the  deduc 
tions  of  science.  We  feel  the  cosmic  chill.  We 
cannot  warm  or  fill  the  great  void.  The  universe 
seems  orphaned.  This  is  the  reason  why  many 
people,  who  accept  science  with  their  understand 
ing,  still  repudiate  it  in  their  hearts ;  the  religious 
beliefs  of  their  youth  still  meet  a  want  of  their 
natures. 

It  makes  a  great  difference  whether  we  look  upon 
things  from  the  point  of  view  of  our  personal  wants 
and  needs,  or  from  the  point  of  view  of  reason.  It 
takes  mankind,  as  it  takes  every  individual  man, 
a  long  and  hard  struggle  to  break  away  from  the 
former  standpoint,  and  to  gain  the  mountain-top 
implied  in  the  latter.  When  I  look  upon  the  sun 
from  my  place  and  surroundings,  he  seems  to  be  a 
mere  appurtenance  of  the  earth.  How  he  seems  to 
attend  us,  and  to  swing  around  us  to  give  light  and 
warmth!  How  immense  seems  the  earth;  how 
small,  comparatively,  the  sun!  See  him  setting 
behind  the  hills  or  riding  up  out  of  the  wave! 
Xenophanes,  according  to  Plutarch,  thought  the 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  227 

earth  had  many  suns  and  many  moons.  An  eclipse 
of  the  sun,  he  said,  happened  when  the  orb  of  the 
sun,  falling  upon  some  part  of  the  world  which  is 
uninhabited,  wandered  in  a  vacuum  and  became 
eclipsed.  Herodotus  also  looked  upon  the  sun  as 
something  thus  special  to  the  earth.  On  the  ap 
proach  of  winter,  he  says,  he  grows  feeble  and 
retreats  to  the  south,  because  he  can  no  longer  face 
the  cold  and  the  storms  of  the  north.  One  is 
reminded  of  these  things  when  he  sees  the  good 
people  appropriate  God  to  themselves  in  a  way  they 
are  perpetually  doing.  What  a  special  interest  He 
takes  in  their  lives !  Their  well-being  or  their  ill- 
being  seems  his  main  concern.  All  the  early  races 
—  the  Bible  races  —  do  this.  How  the  old  He 
brews  claimed  God!  He  was  the  Lord  God  of 
Israel  and  of  no  one  else.  How  imminent,  how 
personal,  He  is  in  their  Scriptures;  how  cruel,  how 
terrible,  how  jealous,  —  a  magnified  and  heaven- 
filling  despot  and  king!  All  the  good  old  pious 
people  still  refer  the  events  of  their  daily  lives 
to  Providence.  Indeed,  the  popular  conception  .of 
God  is  still  essentially  Ptolemaic.  Our  religion  is- 
built  upon  the  notion  that  man  and  man's  life  are 
the  objects  of  his  especial  care  and  solicitude.  And 
so  they  are,  but  not  just  in  the  way  we  are  so  fond 
of  thinking. 

Astronomers  figure  out  for  us  the  infinitesimal 
fraction  of  the  sun's  light  which  our  earth  inter 
cepts  in  the  infinite  void;  in  the  same  way  and  to 
the  same  extent  does  the  providence  of  God  trail- 


228  INDOOR   STUDIES 

scend  not  only  the  wants  of  our  little  lives,  but 
the  life  of  the  globe  itself.  Yet  each  and  all  get 
enough.  The  sun  seems  near  to  us,  —  is  near  by 
its  power.  The  light  that  floods  our  houses,  that 
shines  upon  our  fields,  —  how  potent  it  is !  What 
marvelous  transformations  it  works!  If  the  sun 
did,  indeed,  shine  for  this  world  alone,  and  was 
only  just  there  behind  the  horizon  as  it  seems,  we 
could  not  be  better  looked  after. 

To  all  intents  and  purposes,  God  is  and  exists 
for  each  one  of  us  alone.  His  providence  is  exem 
plified  in  every  movement  of  our  lives.  Out  of 
the  abuse  of  this  feeling  or  faith  comes  our  arrogat 
ing  to  ourselves  special  providences,  special  inter 
ference  in  our  petty  affairs.  But  until  the  sun  does 
shoot  some  special  ray  for  you,  and  the  attraction 
of  gravity  make  some  exception  in  your  favor, 
count  not  upon  God's  doing  so.  Our  very  life,  the 
beating  of  our  very  hearts,  depend  upon  the  sun, 
not  because  the  sun  is  special,  but  because  the  sun 
is  universal;  not  because  it  is  adjusted  and  adapted 
to  us,  but  because  we  are  adjusted  and  adapted  to 
it.  Its  bounty  and  power  extend  in  every  direction 
alike;  it  shoots  into  the  void  myriads  of  rays  as 
vivifying  as  those  that  make  our  blood  flow.  The 
same  with  this  power  we  call  God.  In  it  we  live 
and  move  and  have  our  being,  but  it  is  not  an 
attendant  of  our  lives;  we  are  an  accident  of  it;  it 
is  imminent  to  us,  because  it  is  imminent  every 
where.  Light  was  not  made  for  the  eye,  but  we 
have  eyes  because  there  is  light.  The  outward 


BRIEF    ESSAYS  229 

world  is  not  accommodated  to  us,  but  vice  versa. 
There  are  no  special  acts  of  Providence  that  have 
reference  to  you  and  to  me,  to  this  or  to  that  event 
of  our  lives,  any  more  than  the  North  Star  was 
placed  there  for  the  guidance  of  mariners,  or  that 
anything  in  nature  was  made  for  the  use  of  man. 
Was  water  made  to  quench  thirst?  No;  we  have 
thirst  because  there  is  water.  Were  the  beauties 
and  harmonies  of  nature  made  to  delight  our  senses 
or  for  our  edification?  No;  we  have  the  sense  of 
the  beautiful  because  beauty  exists.  The  beneficent 
forces  of  nature  brought  us  forth  and  sustain  us, 
therefore  we  love  beneficence.  The  loving-kind 
ness  and  the  tender  mercies  of  God,  of  which  we 
hear  so  much,  are  such  not  because  they  are  directed 
to  us,  but  because  they  are  directed  to  all,  —  because 
the  laws  of  the  universe  are  so,  and  not  otherwise. 
God  answers  prayer,  not  by  a  particular  providence, 
but  by  a  general  providence.  You  may  light  your 
fire  by  focusing  the  sun's  rays  with  a  burning-glass; 
but  the  rays  are  no  different;  they  are  the  same  as 
those  that  are  shot  into  space  on  all  sides  at  all 
times.  Still,  Providence  is  imminent  in  human 
affairs,  not  by  special  acts,  but  by  universal,  eter 
nal,  unceasing  acts.  Does  it  rain  to  make  things 
grow  and  to  fill  our  wells  and  cisterns?  We  are 
apt  to  take  this  view  of  things,  but  I  noticed  that 
it  rained  at  sea  the  same  as  upon  the  land.  Men 
and  nations  at  war  with  each  other,  each  seeking 
to  slay  or  overthrow  the  other,  pray  to  the  same 
God  for  victory.  And  God  helps  one  just  as  much 


230  INDOOR   STUDIES 

as  He  helps  the  other,  not  by  special  providences, 
but  by  general  providences,  like  the  rain  or  snow, 
or  light  or  gravitation.  His  laws  prevail,  and 
whoso  obeys  them  (his  will)  best  triumphs;  God 
gives  him  the  victory.  I  notice  that  when  the 
children  of  Israel  are  defeated,  or  suffer  any  disas 
ter,  God  is  always  against  them;  but  when  they 
triumph  it  is  God  who  gives  the  victory,  and  it  is 
all  true  in  a  strict  scientific  sense. 

A  clergyman  on  the  wrecked  train  thanked  God 
most  fervently  that  the  train  did  not  go  into  the 
river.  It  was  clearly  the  hand  of  Providence  that 
saved  them,  he  said.  One  would  have  thought  that 
if  God  had  interested  himself  at  all  in  the  incident 
He  would  have  interested  himself  to  have  prevented 
it.  If  not,  we  must  either  suppose  He  was  unable 
to  prevent  it,  or  else  unwilling,  and  either  horn  of 
the  dilemma  is  a  bad  horn.  At  New  Hamburg 
a  few  years  ago,  when  a  passenger  train  ran  into 
an  oil  train,  and  hundreds  of  people  perished,  He 
seems  to  have  taken  no  hand  at  all  in  the  matter. 
Why  should  He  save  this  crowd  and  not  that  ?  Or 
the  Ashtabula  horror,  —  where  was  God  then  ?  Hid 
ing  from  the  disaster  He  might  have  averted?  Ah 
me!  as  soon  as  we  make  God  out  to  be  a  person 
who  interferes  in  the  events  of  this  world,  into 
what  straits  are  we  forced !  We  are  forced  to  con 
clude  either  that  He  is  not  omnipotent,  or  else  that 
He  is  a  monster  of  cruelty,  —  that  He  is  capricious 
and  changeable,  or  an  ogre  that  delights  in  human 
suffering  and  blood.  I  know  the  well-known  text 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  231 

we  take  shelter  under,  —  the  ways  of  Providence  are 
past  finding  out;  but  that  is  begging  the  question.  , 
You  presume  to  know  them  and  to  have  found 
them  out  when  you  say  He  chose  to  throw  the  train 
on  the  upper  side  of  the  track  instead  of  on  the 
lower.  No,  He  is  not  that  kind  of  a  God.  The 
only  way  He  interferes  or  takes  a  hand  in  is  through 
the  eternal  laws  which  He  has  established.  In 
this  case  the  laws  of  force,  the  laws  of  resistance 
and  of  matter,  were  the  hand  of  God  that  threw  the 
train  against  the  bank;  had  the  forces  clashed  a 
little  differently,  the  train  would  have  gone  into  the 
river.  No  miracle  was  performed  to  prevent  it. 
A  good  engineer  could  tell  you  exactly  how  it  hap 
pened.  And  yet  the  feeling  to  thank  God  in  such 
a  case  is  a  natural  one  and  a  worthy  one ;  it  pro 
ceeds  from  a  true  religious  attitude  of  the  soul. 

The  balance,  the  adjustment,  the  equipoise  which 
we  see  in  the  physical  world,  and  which  we  see  in 
the  world  of  man,  too,  was  not  brought  about  by 
any  guidance  or  principle  of  action  that  bears  the 
slightest  resemblance  to  human  methods  and  aims, 
but  is  the  result  of  eons  upon  eons  of  conflict,  of 
clashing,  of  waste  and  destruction,  the  fittest  or  the 
luckiest  surviving.  What  principle  of  benevolence, 
or  of  justice,  or  of  wise  foresight  has  regulated  the 
distribution  of  the  various  human  races  upon  the 
globe,  or  determined  the  relative  ascendency  of  the 
various  nationalities  ?  Just  the  principle  that  deter 
mines  which  of  a  hungry  pack  of  dogs  shall  get  and 
keep  the  bone  you  toss  them.  Think  of  the  wrongs, 


232  INDOOR   STUDIES 

the  cruelties,  the  waste,  the  slaughters  of  history. 
Think  of  that  mad  carnival  of  lust  and  power  which 
the  history  of  the  Roman  Empire  alone  shows. 
The  past  of  the  race  is  knee-deep  with  blood,  largely 
innocent  blood,  and  the  past  of  nature  is  black  with 
convulsion  and  struggle.  Admitted  that  good  has 
come  out  of  it  all,  yet  how  unlike  has  been  the 
method  to  anything  we  know  as  goodness  or  benevo 
lence  !  Good  has  come  out  of  it  because  our  consti 
tutions  are  adapted  to  it.  To  us  it  is  good;  to  dif 
ferently  constituted  beings  it  might  be  bad.  The 
principle  or  power  which  underlies  all  things  is  like 
the  principle  of  gravitation,  which  is  exerted  equally 
in  all  directions,  and  which  spares  no  crashing  or 
crushing,  no  floods  of  water  or  downfall  of  moun 
tains,  or  subsidence  of  continents,  in  bringing  about 
the  equilibrium  which  we  behold.  Some  things 
sink  and  some  things  swim;  but  whichever  it  be, 
gravity  has  its  way.  There  is  no  waste  in  nature ; 
waste  in  nature  is  but  taking  out  of  one  pocket  and 
putting  into  the  other. 

Prayer  is  practically  a  belief  in  miracles  or  special 
providences,  — a  belief  that  the  world  is  governed, 
not  by  immutable  law,  but  by  a  being  whose  favor 
may  be  won,  whose  anger  may  be  appeased,  or 
whose  purpose  may  be  changed,  like  that  of  a  great 
monarch  or  king.  "Most  men,  in  their  prayers," 
says  Turgdnef,  "ask  God  that  two  and  two  may  not 
make  four."  "The  best  prayers,"  says  Joubert, 
"are  those  which  have  nothing  distinct,  and  which 
thus  partake  of  adoration.  God  listens  but  to 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  233 

thoughts  and  sentiments."  "To  ask  is  to  receive, 
when  we  ask  for  a  genuine  good,"  because  the  gen 
uine  good  is  in  the  devout  and  sincere  asking;  but 
convince  your  orthodox  neighbor  of  this,  and  he 
will  probably  cease  to  pray.  Prayer  with  him  is 
a  petition  to  some  power  external  to  himself  for 
some  definite,  tangible,  measurable  good.  He  will 
pray  for  rain  or  for  sun;  and  the  faith  which 
prompts  him  is  a  stay  to  him,  whether  the  rain 
comes  or  not.  The  wisest  man  cannot  pray,  has 
no  need  of  prayer,  because  his  whole  life  is  an  aspi 
ration  toward,  and  a  desire  for,  the  supreme  good 
of  the  world. 

In  every  emergency  that  requires  courage  and 
presence  of  mind,  the  great  danger  is  in  the  fear  of 
danger.  The  man  who,  lost  in  the  woods  or  on  the 
plains,  or  going  into  battle,  prays  earnestly  to  God 
for  help  and  guidance,  has  his  wits  and  senses  sharp 
ened  and  his  courage  strengthened  by  that  act  of 
faith.  Because  this  is  so,  because  mankind  have 
in  all  ages,  the  pagan  as  well  as  the  Christian,  been 
blessed  by  sincere  prayer  to  their  gods,  they  have 
come  finally  to  pervert  and  vulgarize  prayer  by  ask 
ing  for  outward  material  good.  To  pray  for  rain 
is  like  praying  for  a  change  in  the  moon  or  in  the 
tides  and  seasons.  All  Christendom  prayed  for 
President  Garfield,  but  without  avail,  because  the 
wound  was  mortal.  Did  prayer  ever  stop  the  yel 
low  fever  before  frost  came  ?  Is  it  ever  safe  to  let 
your  piety  offset  sanitary  observances?  If  sewer 
gas  gets  into  your  house,  will  holiness  keep  the  dis- 


234  INDOOR   STUDIES 

temper  out  ?  No ;  and  vaccination  is  a  better  safe 
guard  against  smallpox  than  prayer,  however  fer 
vent  and  serious. 

What  remains,  then,  for  those  who  cannot  pray; 
who  cannot  look  upon  God  as  a  being  apart  from 
themselves,  a  supreme  parent,  seated  somewhere  in 
the  universe,  and  withholding  or  bestowing  gifts 
and  goods  upon  man?  This  alone,  and  this  is 
enough:  To  love  virtue,  to  love  truth,  to  cherish 
a  lofty  ideal,  to  keep  the  soul  open  and  hospitable 
to  whatsoever  things  are  true,  to  whatsoever  things 
are  beautiful,  to  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report. 

VII 

THE    TRUE    REALISM 

Without  at  all  aiming  to  impeach  the  value  of 
what  is  known  in  current  criticism  as  realism  in 
art,  I  think  it  may  safely  be  said  that  any  imagina 
tive  work,  or  any  work  aspiring  to  the  rank  of 
literature,  which  does  not  afford  a  sure  and  a  speedy 
escape  into  the  ideal,  is  of  little  value. 

The  true  literary  artist  is  not  afraid  of  the  real, 
the  concrete;  indeed,  he  loves  real  things  as  the 
painter  his  pigments,  but  they  are  only  a  means  to 
an  end,  and  that  end  is  not  the  literal  truth,  but 
the  ideal  truth.  Strict  fidelity  to  nature,  to  fact, 
is  to  be  demanded,  and  equal  fidelity  to  the  spirit, 
the  imagination.  The  artist  must  give  us  a  true 
picture,  but  he  must  give  us  much  more  than  that; 
he  must  give  us  himself. 

It  is  the  province  of  literature  to  make  us  free  of 


BRIEF    ESSAYS  235 

the  ideal,  and  of  science  to  make  us  acquainted  with 
demonstrable  fact.  It  seems  to  me  it  matters  little 
whether  a  writer  draws  his  material  from  what  we 
call  the  real,  or  from  the  ideal,  so  that  the  result 
be  good  literature.  Why  exalt  the  realist  at  the 
expense  of  the  idealist?  Why  commend  Zola's 
method  over  that  of  Hawthorne,  when  both  are 
failures  unless  they  reach  and  move  the  imagina 
tion,  and  both  succeed  when  they  do  move  it  ? 

If  in  such  a  connection  one  may  be  allowed  to 
speak  of  his  own  work,  I  may  say  that  I  should 
think  much  more  meanly  of  my  own  books  than  I 
do,  if  I  did  not  believe  that  my  account  of  bird,  or 
flower,  or  forest,  or  stream,  contained  some  stimu 
lus  or  quality,  or  suggestion,  which  the  reality 
itself  does  not  hold,  and  which  is  purely  the  gift 
of  the  spirit.  Your  fact  or  observation  is  not  liter 
ature  until  it  is  put  in  some  sort  of  relation  to  the 
soul. 

There  probably  never  was  a  time  when  the  crav 
ing  for  the  real  in  art  —  the  real  as  opposed  to  the 
fantastic,  the  impossible,  or  visionary  —  was  more 
acute  than  it  is  now;  but  the  need  and  the  demand 
are  equally  urgent  for  that  real  to  be  set  in  such  a 
light,  or  in  such  relation  to  the  mind,  that  it  fuse 
readily  with  the  spirit  and  become  one  with  it. 
The  soul  of  man  is  the  source  and  the  only  source 
of  that  charm  which  a  true  work  of  art  possesses. 
The  real  itself,  however  faithfully  set  forth,  has  no 
charm.  A  photograph  is  barren;  the  rudest  sketch 
of  the  same,  seen  by  a  true  artist,  has  far  more 


236  INDOOR   STUDIES 

power  to  touch  and  move  the  soul.  Only  the  man 
who  looks  upon  the  real  with  passion,  with  emotion, 
will  succeed  in  transmuting  it  into  something  higher, 
and  thus  permanently  interest  mankind  in  it.  And 
if  he  looks  upon  the  imaginary,  the  fantastic,  with 
passion  and  emotion,  he  will  interest  mankind  in 
that  also.  He  will  make  that  real  and  living  to  us. 

"The  highest  problem  of  any  art,"  says  Goethe, 
"is  to  produce  by  semblance  the  illusion  of  some 
higher  reality.  But  it  is  a  false  endeavor  to  realize 
the  appearance  until  at  last  only  something  com 
monly  real  remains." 

I  think  the  complaint  one  has  to  make  of  the 
current  realistic  fiction  is  that  it  fails  to  produce 
this  "illusion  of  some  higher  reality."  It  rests 
with  the  "commonly"  or  meanly  realistic.  After 
we  have  finished  the  book,  we  feel  as  if  we  had 
been  in  the  company  of  people  whose  acquaintance 
was  not  worth  the  making.  They  are  or  may  be 
copied  from  our  friends  and  acquaintances,  but 
there  is  this  difference:  In  real  life,  there  is  some 
thing,  it  may  not  be  easy  to  say  just  what,  that 
gives  pathos  and  significance  to  the  most  humdrum 
and  frivolous,  —  something  that  points  to  the  higher 
reality;  but  in  the  story  the  people  are  cut  off, 
isolated,  and  we  feel  only  their  pettiness  or  silliness. 
It  is  often  said  that  the  commonest  and  dullest  life, 
if  truly  written,  would  have  something  of  perennial 
interest ;  but  it  must  be  sympathetically  written,  and 
shown  off  against  a  proper  background.  .There  are 
few  more  commonplace  characters  in  themselves  in 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  237 

fiction  than  Partridge  in  "Tom  Jones,"  but  Par 
tridge  witnessing  his  first  play  at  the  theatre  is 
immortal.  The  meanest  life  has  poetry  in  it,  but 
it  takes  a  poet  to  bring  the  poetry  out.  In  writing 
"Werther,"  Goethe  said  he  succeeded  in  breathing 
into  the  work  "all  that  warmth  which  leaves  no 
distinction  between  the  poetical  and  the  actual." 
Whether  or  not  it  was  realistic,  in  the  sense  that  it 
was  a  faithful  picture  of  the  life  of  his  times,  is  of 
little  moment  compared  with  the  question:  Was  it 
vital  and  serious,  or  informed  with  real  passion1? 
And  if  the  passion  of  the  story  or  poem  is  real,  do 
we  care  for  any  other  reality?  If  the  mood  and 
temper  in  which  an  author  contemplates  his  subject 
are  genuine,  his  realism  will  take  care  of  itself. 

Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  only  the  idealist 
who  can  adequately,  deal  with  the  real,  — who  can 
fuse  it  and  use  it  and  bring  out  its  full  significance. 
There  may  be  a  barren  realism,  just  as  well  as  a 
barren  idealism;  the  proper  marriage  of  the  two  is 
the  end  and  aim  of  art.  To  make  the  idea  tangible 
to  us,  whether  in  poetry  or  in  prose,  so  that  the 
mind  can  rest  upon  it,  and  feel  braced  and  excited 
by  it,  —  is  not  that  also  an  end  to  be  aimed  at  ? 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  to  make  the  actual,  the 
concrete,  fluid  and  plastic,  and  inform  it  with  mean 
ing  and  power,  —  is  not  that  also  to  be  striven  for  ? 
In  the  same  proportion  in  which  literature  is  real, 
must  it  also  be  ideal;  just  so  much  earth  as  there 
is,  just  so  much  sky  must  arch  over  it.  The  actual 
must  be  transmuted,  the  ideal  must  be  embodied; 


238  INDOOR   STUDIES 

both  must  be  brought  within  the  sphere  of  the  spir 
itual  faculty  and  fixed  there.  If  the  novelist  trans 
fers  to  his  page  the  real  life  about  him  and  adds  no 
charm  or  illusion  or  suggestion  from  his  own  spirit, 
he  is  less  a  realist  than  he  is  a  materialist ;  his  work 
has  little  value.  The  writers  who  can  describe  the 
actual  and  make  it  real  to  us,  that  is,  make  us  share 
their  experience  and  their  emotion,  are  very  rare. 
They  tell  us  what  they  saw  or  what  they  felt,  but 
they  do  not  put  the  reader  in  the  presence  of  the 
actual  thing  or  occurrence.  How  many  historians 
make  the  past  alive  again  for  us?  Only  the  man 
with  an  enormous  grasp  of  the  ideal,  or  great  im 
aginative  power,  can  do  it.  Shakespeare  can  do  it, 
Carlyle  can  do  it.  What  a  sense  of  reality  in  all 
Carlyle's  histories!  The  dead  reality  is  not  enough; 
it  must  be  made  alive  again.  Equally  few  are  the 
writers  who  can  make  the  ideal  tangible  or  warm 
to  us. 

In  any  case,  whatever  the  theme,  the  first  requi 
site  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  is  a  vivid  sense  of 
reality.  I  sometimes  think  this  sense  of  reality 
the  main  thing  which  distinguishes  the  master  from 
the  tyro.  In  the  great  writer,  in  whatever  field, 
we  encounter  real  things,  real  values,  real  differ 
ences,  real  emotions,  real  impressions;  his  sense  of 
reality  always  saves  him  from  phantoms.  The 
mind  in  which  this  sense  of  reality  is  weak,  no 
matter  whether  it  deals  with  the  concrete  or  the 
abstract,  will  always  fail  to  make  an  impression. 

For  my  part  I  want  no  better  realists  than  the 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  239 

great  masters  of  the  ideal,  from  Homer  down  to 
Hawthorne  and  Turgenef.  How  they  all  differ 
Loth  in  their  material  and  treatment!  but  in  the 
page  of  each  you  encounter  that  reality,  that  sense 
of  substance  and  vitality,  which  are  to  the  mind 
what  the  ground  is  to  the  foot,  or  the  air  to  the 
lungs. 

VIII 

LITERARY    FAME 

Goldsmith,  according  to  Boswell,  said  that  he 
had  come  too  late  into  the  world;  that  Pope  and 
other  poets  had  carried  off  all  the  literary  prizes, 
etc.  Dr.  Johnson  confirmed  the  remark,  and  said 
it  was  difficult  to  get  literary  fame,  and  was  every 
day  becoming  more  and  more  difficult.  This  is 
probably  the  feeling  of  all  writers  who  have  reached 
the  measure  of  their  powers;  they  mistake  the 
limits  of  their  own  tether  for  the  end  of  the  world. 
The  possibilities  that  are  not  open  to  them  they 
think  do  not  exist.  A  man  of  genius  and  power 
makes  the  world  his  own,  and  when  he  is  done 
with  it  he  fancies  there  is  nothing  left.  Every  one 
of  us  repeats  the  same  experience  on  a  different 
scale.  As  our  careers  draw  to  a  close,  we  fancy  we 
have  exhausted  the  whole  of  life,  and  that  there 
will  be  nothing  left  for  those  who  are  to  come  after 
us.  But  life  is  always  new  to  the  new  man. 
Think  of  the  great  names  in  British  literature  since 
Goldsmith  and  Johnson;  think  of  Burns,  Words 
worth,  Scott,  Byron,  Dickens,  Macaulay,  Carlyle, 
Arnold,  etc.,  each  one  of  whom,  probably,  in  ex- 


240  INDOOR   STUDIES 

hausting  his  own  possibilities  fancied  he  had  ex 
hausted  the  possibilities  of  nature. 

Probably  literary  fame  is  no  more  difficult  of 
achievement  at  one  time  than  at  another,  just  as 
easy  to  Thackeray  as  it  was  to  Goldsmith;  and  this 
notwithstanding  an  achievement  that  would  have 
given  a  measure  of  fame  a  century  ago  would  attract 
far  less  attention  to-day.  Is  it  at  all  likely  that  if 
the  "  Spectator "  essays  were  written  to-day  they 
would  attract  any  considerable  notice,  or  that  "  The 
Idler"  and  "Adventurer"  would  find  any  readers? 
But  the  writer  of  to-day  has  all  this  past  to  stand 
upon,  he  profits  by  all  these  accumulated  achieve 
ments.  A  man  is  largely  the  creature  of  his  times; 
he  is  strong  by  the  strength  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lives.  An  invention  that  would  have  seemed  mar 
velous  a  century  ago  might  be  a  very  tame  affair 
to-day;  and  yet  the  same  genius,  the  same  power  in 
achieving  a  noteworthy  result  to-day,  would  prob 
ably  have  no  more  obstacles  to  overcome,  or  mys 
teries  to  solve,  than  one  hundred  years  ago.  He  has 
a  great  fund  to  work  with;  he  sees  farther  because 
he  stands  higher.  If  the  achievement  is  measured 
by  the  standard  of  to-day,  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  the  achiever  is  strong  by  the  strength  of  to-day. 
The  same  in  science.  Now  the  quarry  is  so  thor 
oughly  opened,  larger  and  more  valuable  results 
ought  to  be  easier  than  ever  before.  Of  course  the 
poet  or  literary  man  cannot  avail  himself  of  the 
results  of  the  labor  of  others  in  the  same  way 
the  man  of  science  can  and  does,  but  he  cannot 


BRIEF   ESSAYS  241 

escape  the  general  lift  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives ; 
he  shares  in  the  momentum,  moral  and  intellectual, 
of  his  contemporaries.  In  a  certain  sense,  also,  he 
inherits,  as  an  available  personal  fund,  what  others 
have  done  before  him.  It  is  the  common  mind 
which  has  been  refined  and  enlarged,  and  of  this 
advantage  he  partakes.  Literature  is  an  investment 
of  genius  which  pays  dividends  to  all  subsequent 
times. 

If  nature  were  guilty  of  endless  repetition  in 
turning  out  men  of  exceptional  powers,  of  course 
every  new  man  would  find  his  task  already  done  in 
the  world;  but  nature  forever  varies  the  pattern  so 
that  the  new  man  has  a  new  standpoint  and  sees 
things  in  new  combinations  and  discovers  new  val 
ues,  and  he  is  never  forestalled  by  those  who  have 
gone  before  him.  Every  new  genius  is  an  impossi 
bility  until  he  appears ;  we  cannot  forecast  his  type. 
He  is  a  revelation,  and  through  his  eyes  we  shall 
see  undreamed-of  effects.  It  is  doubtful  if  contem 
porary  writers  of  original  power  ever  stand  in  each 
other's  way.  There  is  always  room  and  demand 
for  any  number  of  original  men.  The  lesser  poets 
of  course  suffer  in  competition  with  the  greater; 
the  large  stars  draw  our  eyes  away  from  the  smaller ; 
we  should  make  more  of  Bayard  Taylor,  for  in 
stance,  if  he  were  our  only  poet;  but  is  it  probable 
that  Longfellow  or  Whittier  or  Bryant  or  Emerson 
ever  intercepted  any  portion  of  the  fame  due  and 
within  reach  of  the  other?  Have  Tennyson  or 
Browning  in  any  sense  ever  been  rivals?  Literary 


242  INDOOIt   STUDIES 

fame  is  not  a  limited  quantity  which  must  lessen  in 
proportion  as  it  is  divided  up,  but,  like  the  sun 
light,  each  man  may  have  it  all  and  not  rob  his 
neighbor.  Inventors  and  discoverers  and  men  of 
science  may  anticipate  each  other,  but  literary  gen 
ius  can  never  be  anticipated;  the  value  of  the  gift 
which  it  brings  is  in  its  uniqueness.  I  heard  it 
remarked  the  other  day  of  one  of  our  promising 
young  poets  that  his  work  lacked  flavor.  It  is  this 
flavor  which  is  indispensable,  and  which  can  never 
be  forestalled  by  another.  There  is  rivalry  in  the 
trades  and  the  professions,  but  you  poet,  or  you 
novelist,  or  you  essayist,  if  your  work  has  flavor  or 
character  of  its  own,  your  chance  for  fame  is  just 
as  good  as  if  there  were  no  competitors  in  the  field. 
It  is  not  a  vacant  niche  in  the  Temple  of  Fame 
which  you  are  striving  for,  and  which  only  one  can 
fill:  it  is  a  niche  in  the  hearts  of  men,  where  the 
room  is  boundless. 

Goldsmith  felt  himself  under  the  shadow  of 
Pope's  great  fame,  but  of  course  he  was  a  gainer 
from  Pope's  career.  His  performance  was  as  unique 
as  Pope's,  and  has  probably  been  of  more  service  to 
mankind.  But  Pope  cleared  and  sharpened  the 
mind  of  his  age;  dull  wits  found  less  acceptance 
after  than  before  him,  and  in  this  benefit  Gold 
smith,  like  others,  was  a  sharer. 


IX 

AN  EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER 

A  FEW  years  ago  the  editor  of  a  popular  maga 
zine  inveigled  a  good  many  people,  myself 
among  the  number,  into  writing  about  themselves 
and  their  experiences  in  life.  None  of  us,  I  im 
agine,  needed  very  much  persuading,  for  as  a  rule 
there  is  no  subject  which  a  man  or  woman  is  more 
ready  or  willing  to  talk  about  than  himself  or  herself. 
One's  ailments  are  always  a  favorite  subject;  next 
to  that,  one's  luck  or  ill-luck  in  his  last  undertak 
ing;  then  one's  experiences,  one's  likes  and  dis 
likes;  and  lastly,  self-analysis  and  criticism.  And 
it  has  been  said  that  a  man  "is  never  so  sure  to 
please  as  when  he  writes  of  himself  with  good  faith, 
and  without  affectation."  Aye,  there  '&  the  rub;  to 
write  of  one's  self  without  affectation!  A  false 
note  of  this  kind  is  fatal  to  the  interest  and  value 
of  the  criticism. 

In  a  certain  sense,  a  man  of  the  literary  or  artistic 
temperament  never  portrays  or  writes  of  anything 
but  himself;  that  is,  he  gives  us  things  as  seen 
through  the  intimate  personal  medium  which  he 
himself  is.  All  things  reflect  his  hue  and  quality. 
This  is  the  bane  of  science,  but  it  is  the  life  of 


244  INDOOR   STUDIES 

literature.  I  have  probably  unwittingly  written 
myself  in  my  books  more  fully  and  frankly  than  I 
ever  can  by  any  direct  confession  and  criticism ;  but 
the  latter  may  throw  some  side  light  at  least,  and, 
on  looking  over  what  I  wrote  for  the  editor  above 
referred  to,  I  find  that  portions  of  it  possess  a  cer 
tain  interest  and  value  to  myself,  and  therefore  I 
trust  may  not  seem  entirely  amiss  to  my  reader. 

If  a  man  is  not  born  into  the  environment  best 
suited  to  him,  he,  as  a  rule,  casts  about  him  until 
he  finds  such  environment.  My  own  surroundings 
and  connections  have  been  mainly  of  the  unliterary 
kind.  I  was  born  of  and  among  people  who  neither 
read  books  nor  cared  for  them,  and  my  closest  asso 
ciations  since  have  been  with  those  whose  minds 
have  been  alien  to  literature  and  art.  My  unliter 
ary  environment  has  doubtless  been  best  suited  to 
me.  Probably  what  little  freshness  and  primal 
sweetness  my  books  contain  is  owing  to  this  circum 
stance.  Constant  intercourse  with  bookish  men 
and  literary  circles  I  think  would  have  dwarfed  or 
killed  my  literary  faculty.  This  perpetual  rubbing 
of  heads  together,  as  in  the  literary  clubs,  seems  to 
result  in  literary  sterility.  In  my  own  case  at  least 
what  I  most  needed  was  what  I  had,  —  a  few  books 
and  plenty  of  real  things.  I  never  had  any  apti 
tude  for  scholarly  attainments ;  my  verbal  or  artifi 
cial  memory,  so  to  speak,  was  poor,  but  my  mind 
always  had  a  certain  magnetic  or  adhesive  quality 
for  things  that  were  proper  to  it  and  that  belonged 
to  me. 


AN   EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER  245 

I  early  took  pleasure  in  trying  to  express  myself 
upon  paper,  probably  in  my  sixteenth  or  seventeenth 
year.  In  my  reading  I  was  attracted  by  everything 
of  the  essay  kind.  In  the  libraries  and  bookstores 
I  was  on  the  lookout  for  books  of  essays.  And  I 
wanted  the  essay  to  start,  not  in  a  casual  and  incon 
sequential  way,  but  the  first  sentence  must  be  a 
formal  enunciation  of  a  principle.  I  bought  the 
whole  of  Dr.  Johnson's  works  at  a  second-hand 
bookstore  in  New  York,  because,  on  looking  into 
them,  I  found  his  essays  appeared  to  be  of  solid 
essay-stuff  from  beginning  to  end.  I  passed  by 
Montaigne's  Essays  at  the  same  time,  because  they 
had  a  personal  and  gossipy  look.  Almost  my  first 
literary  attempts  were  moral  reflections,  somewhat 
in  the  Johnsonian  style.  I  lived  on  the  "Ram 
bler"  and  the  "Idler"  all  one  year,  and  tried  to 
produce  something  of  my  own  in  similar  form.  As 
a  youth  I  was  a  philosopher;  as  a  young  man  I  was 
an  Emersonian ;  as  a  middle-aged  man  I  am  a  liter 
ary  naturalist;  but  always  have  I  been  an  essayist. 

It  was  while  I  was  at  school,  in  my  nineteenth 
year,  that  I  saw  my  first  author;  and  I  distinctly 
remember  with  what  emotion  I  gazed  upon  him, 
and  followed  him  in  the  twilight,  keeping  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  He  was  of  little  account, 
—  a  man  who  had  failed  as  a  lawyer,  and  then  had 
written  a  history  of  Poland,  which  I  have  never 
heard  of  since  that  time;  but  to  me  he  was  the 
embodiment  of  the  august  spirit  of  authorship,  and 
I  looked  upon  him  with  more  reverence  and  enthu- 


246  INDOOR   STUDIES 

siasm  than  I  had  ever  before  looked  upon  any  man. 
I  do  not  think  I  could  have  approached  and  spoken 
to  him  on  any  consideration.  I  cannot  at  this  date 
divine  why  I  should  have  stood  in  such  worshipful 
fear  and  awe  of  this  obscure  individual,  but  I  sup 
pose  it  was  the  instinctive  tribute  of  a  timid  and 
imaginative  youth  to  a  power  which  he  was  just 
beginning  vaguely  to  see,  —  the  power  of  letters. 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  I  first  saw  my  own 
thoughts  in  print,  —  a  communication  of  some  kind 
to  a  little  country  paper  published  in  an  adjoining 
town.  In  my  twenty-second  or  twenty-third  year, 
I  began  to  send  rude  and  crude  essays  to  the  maga 
zines  and  to  certain  New  York  weekly  papers,  but 
they  came  back  again  pretty  promptly.  I  wrote  on 
such  subjects  as  "Revolutions,"  "A  Man  and  his 
Times,"  "Genius,"  "Individuality,"  etc.  At  this 
period  of  my  life  I  was  much  indebted  to  Whipple, 
whose  style,  as  it  appears  in  his  earlier  essays  and  in 
the  thin  volume  of  lectures  published  by  Ticknor, 
Keed  &  Fields  about  1853  is,  in  my  judgment, 
much  better  than  in  his  later  writings.  It  was 
never  a  good  style,  not  at  all  magnetic  or  penetrat 
ing,  but  it  was  clear  and  direct,  and,  to  my  mind 
at  that  period,  stimulating.  Higginson  had  just 
begun  to  publish  his  polished  essays  in  the  "Atlan 
tic,"  and  I  found  much  help  in  them  also.  They 
were  a  little  cold,  but  they  had  the  quality  which 
belongs  to  the  work  of  a  man  who  looks  upon  litera 
ture  as  a  fine  art.  My  mind  had  already  begun  to 
turn  to  outdoor  themes,  and  Higginson  gave  me  a 


AN    EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER  247 

good  send-off  in  this  direction.  But  the  master- 
enchanter  of  this  period  of  my  life  and  of  many 
following  years  was  Emerson.  While  at  school,  in 
my  nineteenth  year,  in  my  search  for  essays  I  had 
carried  to  my  room  one  volume  of  his,  but  I  could 
do  nothing  with  it.  What,  indeed,  could  a  John 
sonian  youth  make  of  Emerson?  A  year  or  so  later 
I  again  opened  one  of  his  books  in  a  Chicago  book 
store,  and  was  so  taken  with  the  first  taste  of  it 
that  I  then  and  there  purchased  the  three  volumes, 
—  the  Essays  and  the  Miscellanies.  All  that  sum 
mer  I  fed  upon  them  and  steeped  myself  in  them : 
so  that  when,  a  year  or  two  afterwards,  I  wrote  an 
essay  on  "Expression"  and  sent  it  to  the  ''Atlan 
tic,"  it  was  so  Emersonian  that  the  editor  thought 
some  one  was  trying  to  palm  off  on  him  an  early 
essay  of  Emerson's  which  he  had  not  seen.  Satis 
fying  himself  that  Emerson  had  published  no  such 
paper,  he  printed  it  in  the  November  number  of 
18GO.  It  had  not  much  merit.  I  remember  this 
sentence,  which  may  contain  some  truth  aptly  put: 
"Dr.  Johnson's  periods  act  like  a  lever  of  the  third 
kind:  the  power  applied  always  exceeds  the  weight 
raised. " 

It  was  mainly  to  break  the  spell  of  Emerson's 
influence  and  get  upon  ground  of  my  own  that  I 
took  to  writing  upon  outdoor  themes.  I  wrote  half 
a  dozen  or  more  sketches  upon  all  sorts  of  open-air 
subjects,  which  were  published  in  the  New  York 
"Leader."  The  woods,  the  soil,  the  waters,  helped 
to  draw  out  the  pungent  Emersonian  flavor  and 


248  INDOOR   STUDIES 

restore  me  to  my  proper  atmosphere.  Rut  to  this 
day  I  am  aware  that  a  suggestion  of  Emerson's 
manner  often  crops  out  in  my  writings.  His  mind 
was  the  firmer,  harder  substance,  and  was  bound  to 
leave  its  mark  upon  my  own.  But,  in  any  case, 
my  debt  to  him  is  great.  He  helped  me  to  better 
literary  expression,  he  quickened  my  perception  of 
the  beautiful,  he  stimulated  and  fertilized  my  reli 
gious  nature.  Unless  one  is  naturally  more  or  less 
both  of  a  religious  and  of  a  poetic  turn,  the  writings 
of  such  men  as  Emerson  and  Carlyle  are  mainly  lost 
upon  him.  Two  thirds  of  the  force  of  these  writers, 
at  least,  is  directed  into  these  channels.  It  is  the 
quality  of  their  genius,  rather  than  the  scope  and 
push  of  their  minds,  that  endears  them  •  to  us. 
They  quicken  the  conscience  and  stimulate  the 
character  as  well  as  correct  the  taste.  They  are 
not  the  spokesmen  of  science  or  the  reason,  but  of 
the  soul. 

About  this  period  I  fell  in  with  Thoreau' s  "Wai- 
den,"  but  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  great  debt  to 
Thoreau :  I  had  begun  to  write  upon  outdoor  themes 
before  his  books  fell  into  my  hands,  but  he  un 
doubtedly  helped  confirm  me  in  my  own  direction. 
He  was  the  intellectual  child  of  Emerson,  but 
added  a  certain  crispness  and  pungency,  as  of  wild 
roots  and  herbs,  to  the  urbane  philosophy  of  his 
great  neighbor.  But  Thoreau  had  one  trait  which 
I  always  envied  him,  namely,  his  indifference  to 
human  beings.  He  seems  to  have  been  as  insensi 
ble  to  people  as  he  was  open  and  hospitable  to 


AN   EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER  249 

nature.  It  probably  gave  him  more  pleasure  to 
open  his  door  to  a  woodchuck  than  to  a  man. 

Let  me  confess  that  I  am  too  conscious  of  per 
sons,  —  feel  them  too  much,  defer  to  them  too 
much,  and  try  too  hard  to  adapt  myself  to  them. 
Emerson  says,  "A  great  man  is  coming  to  dine  with 
me:  I  do  not  wish  to  please  him,  I  wish  that  he 
should  wish  to  please  me."  I  should  be  sure  to 
overdo  the  matter  in  trying  to  please  the  great  man : 
more  than  that,  his  presence  would  probably  take 
away  my  appetite  for  my  dinner. 

In  speaking  of  the  men  who  have  influenced  me, 
or  to  whom  I  owe  the  greatest  debt,  let  me  finish 
the  list  here.  I  was  not  born  out  of  time,  but  in 
good  time.  The  men  I  seemed  to  need  most  were 
nearly  all  my  contemporaries;  the  ideas  and  influ 
ences  which  address  themselves  to  me  the  most 
directly  and  forcibly  have  been  abundantly  current 
in  my  time.  Hence  I  owe,  or  seem  to  owe,  more 
to  contemporary  authors  than  to  the  men  of  the 
past.  I  have  lived  in  the  present  time,  in  the 
present  hour,  and  have  invested  myself  in  the  ob 
jects  nearest  at  hand.  Besides  the  writers  I  have 
mentioned,  I  am  conscious  of  owing  a  debt  to  Whit 
man,  Ruskin,  Arnold,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and 
Tennyson.  To  Whitman  I  owe  a  certain  liberaliz 
ing  influence,  as  well  as  a  lesson  in  patriotism 
which  I  could  have  got  in  the  same  measure  from 
no  other  source.  Whitman  opens  the  doors,  and 
opens  them  wide.  He  pours  a  flood  of  human 
sympathy  which  sets  the  whole  world  afloat.  He 


250  INDOOR    STUDIES 

is  a  great  humanizing  power.  There  is  no  other 
personality  in  literature  that  gives  me  such  a  sense 
of  breadth  and  magnitude  in  the  purely  human  and 
personal  qualities.  His  poems  are  dominated  by  a 
sense  of  a  living,  breathing  man  as  no  other  poems 
are.  This  would  not  recommend  them  to  some 
readers,  but  it  recommends  them  to  such  as  myself, 
who  value  in  books  perennial  human  qualities  above 
all  things.  To  put  a  great  personality  in  poetry  is 
to  establish  a  living  fountain  of  power,  where  the 
jaded  and  exhausted  race  can  refresh  and  renew 
itself. 

To  a  man  in  many  ways  the  opposite  of  Whit 
man,  who  stands  for  an  entirely  different,  almost 
antagonistic,  order  of  ideas,  —  to  wit,  Matthew 
Arnold,  —  I  am  indebted  for  a  lesson  in  clear  think 
ing  and  clean  expression  such  as  I  have  got  from 
no  other.  Arnold's  style  is  probably  the  most 
lucid,  the  least  embarrassed  by  anything  false  or 
foreign,  of  that  of  any  writer  living.  His  page  is 
as  clear  as  science  and  as  vital  and  flexible  as  poetry. 
Indeed,  he  affords  a  notable  instance  of  the  cool, 
impartial  scientific  spirit  wedded  to,  or  working 
through,  the  finest  poetic  delicacy  and  sensibility. 

I  have  not  been  deeply  touched  or  moved  by  any 
English  poet  of  this  century  save  Wordsworth. 
Nearly  all  other  poetry  of  nature  is  tame  and  insin 
cere  compared  with  his.  But  my  poetic  sympathies 
are  probably  pretty  narrow.  I  cannot,  for  instance, 
read  Robert  Browning,  except  here  and  there  a 
short  poem.  The  sheer  mechanical  effort  of  read- 


AN   EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER  251 

ing  him,  of  leaping  and  dodging  and  turning  sharp 
corners  to  overtake  his  meaning,  is  too  much  for 
me.  It  makes  my  mental  bones  ache.  It  is  not 
that  he  is  so  subtile  and  profound,  for  he  is  less  in 
both  these  respects  than  Shakespeare,  but  that  he 
is  so  abrupt  and  elliptical  and  plays  such  fantastic 
tricks  with  syntax.  His  verse  is  like  a  springless 
wagon  on  a  rough  road.  He  is  full  of  bounce  and 
vigor,  but  it  is  of  the  kind  that  bruises  the  flesh 
and  makes  one  bite  his  tongue.  Swinburne  has  lilt 
and  flow  enough,  certainly,  and  yet  I  cannot  read 
him.  He  sickens  me  from  the  opposite  cause :  I 
am  adrift  in  a  sea  of  melodious  words,  with  never 
an  idea  to  cling  to.  There .  is  to  me  something 
grewsome  and  uncanny  about  Swinburne's  poetry, 
like  the  clammy  and  rapidly-growing  fungi  in  na 
ture.  It  is  not  health,  but  disease ;  it  is  not  inspi 
ration,  but  a  mortal  flux.  The  "Saturday  Review," 
in  noticing  my  last  volume,  "Signs  and  Seasons," 
intimates  that  I  might  have  found  better  specimens 
of  sea- poetry  to  adorn  the  chapter  called  "A  Salt 
Breeze "  in  Mr.  Swinburne  than  those  I  have 
given,  and  quotes  the  following  stanzas  from  him  as 
proof : — 

"  Hardly  we  saw  the  high  moon  hanging, 

Heard  hardly  through  the  windy  night 
Far  waters  ringing,  low  reefs  clanging, 
Under  wan  skies  and  waste  white  light. 

"  With  chafe  and  change  of  surges  chiming, 
The  clashing  channels  rocked  and  rang 
Large  music,  wave  to  wild  wave  timing, 
And  all  the  choral  waters  sang." 


252  INDOOR   STUDIES 

Words,  words,  words!  and  all  struck  with  the  lep 
rosy  of  alliteration.  Such  poetry  would  turn  my 
blood  to  water.  "Wan  skies  and  waste  white 
light,'7  —  are  there  ever  any  other  skies  or  any 
other  light  in  Swinburne  ? 

But  this  last  is  an  ill  wind  which  I  fear  can  blow 
no  good  to  any  one.  I  have  lived  long  enough  to 
know  that  my  own  private  likes  and  dislikes  do  not 
always  turn  out  to  be  the  decrees  of  the  Eternal. 
Some  writers  confirm  one  and  brace  him  where  he 
stands;  others  give  him  a  lift  forward.  I  am  not 
aware  that  more  than  two  American  writers  have 
been  of  the  latter  service  to  me,  —  Emerson  and 
Whitman.  Such  a  spirit  as  Bryant  is  confirmatory. 
I  may  say  the  same  of  Whittier  and  Longfellow. 
I  owe  to  these  men  solace  and  encouragement,  but 
no  new  territory. 

Still,  the  influences  that  shape  one's  life  are 
often  so  subtile  and  remote,  and  of  such  small 
beginning,  that  it  will  not  do  to  be  too  positive 
about  these  matters.  At  any  rate,  self-analysis  is 
a  sort  of  back-handed  work,  and  one  is  lucky  if  he 
comes  at  all  near  the  truth. 

As  such  a  paper  must  of  necessity  be  egotistical, 
let  me  not  flinch  in  any  part  of  my  task  on  that 
account. 

What  little  merit  my  style  has  is  the  result  of 
much  study  and  discipline.  I  have  taught  myself 
always  to  get  down  to  the  quick  of  my  mind  at 
once,  and  not  fumble  about  amid  the  husks  at  the 
surface.  Unless  one  can  give  the  sense  of  vitality 


AN   EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER  253 

in  his  pages,  no  mere  verbal  brightness  or  scholarly 
v  attainments  will  save  him.  In  the  best  writing, 
every  sentence  is  filled  with  the  writer's  living, 
breathing  quality,  just  as  in  the  perfected  honey 
comb  every  cell  is  filled  with  honey.  But  how 
much  empty  comb  there  is  even  in  the  best  books ! 
I  wish  to  give  an  account  of  a  bird,  or  a  flower,  or 
of  any  open-air  scene  or  incident.  My  whole  effort 
is  to  see  the  thing  just  as  it  was.  I  ask  myself, 
"  Exactly  how  did  this  thing  strike  my  mind  1  What 
was  prominent  ?  What  was  subordinated  ?  "  I  have 
been  accused  of  romancing  at  times.  But  it  is.  not 
true.  I  set  down  the  thing  exactly  as  it  fell  out. 
People  say,  "  I  do  not  see  what  you  do  when  I  take 
a  walk. "  But  for  the  most  part  they  do,  but  the  fact 
as  it  lies  there  in  nature  is  crude  and  raw :  it  needs 
to  be  brought  out,  to  be  passed  through  the  heart 
and  mind  and  presented  in  appropriate  words.  This 
humanizes  it  and  gives  it  an  added  charm  and  sig 
nificance.  This,  I  take  it,  is  what  is  meant  by 
idealizing  and  interpreting  nature.  We  do  not  add 
to  or  falsely  color  the  facts:  we  disentangle  them, 
and  invest  them  with  the  magic  of  written  words. 

To  give  anything  like  vitality  to  one's  style,  one 
must  divest  one's  self  of  any  false  or  accidental  or 
factitious  mood  or  feeling,  and  get  down  to  his  real 
self,  and  speak  as  directly  and  sincerely  as  he  does 
about  his  daily  business  or  affairs,  and  with  as 
little  affectation.  One  may  write  from  the  outside 
of  his  mind,  as  it  were,  write  and  write,  glibly  and 
learnedly,  and  make  no  impression;  but  when  one 


254  INDOOR    STUDIES 

speaks  from  real  insight  and  conviction  of  his  own, 
men  are  always  glad  to  hear  him,  whether  they 
agree  with  him  or  not.  So  much  writing  or  speak 
ing  is  like  mere  machine- work,  as  if  you  turned  a 
crank  and  the  piece  or  discourse  came  out.  It  is 
not  the  man's  real  mind,  his  real  experience.  This 
he  does  not  know  how  to  get  at;  it  has  no  connec 
tion  with  his  speaking  or  writing  faculty.  How 
rare  are  real  poems,  —  poems  that  spring  from  real 
feeling,  a  real  throb  of  emotion,  and  not  from  a 
mere  surface-itching  of  the  mind  for  literary  expres 
sion!  The  world  is  full  of  "rhyming  parasites," 
as  Milton  called  them.  The  great  mass  of  the 
poetry  of  any  age  is  purely  artificial,  and  has  no 
root  in  real  things.  It  is  a  kind  of  masquerading. 
The  stock  poetic  forms  are  masks  behind  which  the 
poetlings  hide  their  real  poverty  of  thought  and 
feeling.  In  prose  one  has  no  such  factitious  aids; 
here  he  must  stand  upon  his  own  merits;  he  has 
not  the  cloak  of  Milton,  or  Tennyson,  or  Spenser, 
to  hide  in. 

It  is,  of  course,  the  young  writer  who  oftenest 
fails  to  speak  his  real  mind,  or  to  speak  from  any 
proper  basis  of  insight  and  conviction.  He  is  car 
ried  away  by  a  fancy,  a  love  of  novelty,  or  an 
affectation  of  originality.  The  strange  things,  the 
novel  things,  are  seldom  true.  Look  for  truth  under 
your  feet.  To  be  original,  Carlyle  said,  is  to  be 
sincere.  When  one  is  young,  how  many  discover 
ies  he  makes,  — real  mares'-eggs,  which  by  and  by 
turn  out  to  be  nothing  but  field-pumpkins! 


AN   EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER  255 

Men  who,  like  myself,  are  deficient  in  self-asser 
tion,  or  whose  personalities  are  flexible  and  yield 
ing,  make  a  poor  show  in  politics  or  business,  but 
in  certain  other  fields  these  defects  have  their 
advantages.  In  action,  Renan  says,  one  is  weak 
by  his  best  qualities,  —  such,  I  suppose,  as  tender 
ness,  sympathy,  religiousness,  etc., — and  strong 
by  his  poorer,  or  at  least  his  less  attractive,  quali 
ties.  But  in  letters  the  reverse  is  probably  true. 
How  many  of  us  owe  our  success  in  this  field  to 
qualities  which  in  a  measure  disqualified  us  for  an 
active  career!  A  late  writer  upon  Carlyle  seeks  to 
demonstrate  that  the  "  open  secret  of  his  life  "  was 
his  desire  to  take  a  hand  in  the  actual  affairs  of 
English  politics;  but  it  is  quite  certain  that  the 
traits  and  gifts  which  made  him  such  a  power  in 
literature  —  namely,  his  tremendous  imagination  and 
his  burdened  prophetic  conscience  —  would  have 
stood  in  his  way  in  dealing  with  the  coarse  affairs 
of  this  world. 

In  my  own  case,  what  hinders  me  with  the  world 
helps  me  with  impersonal  nature.  I  do  not  stand 
in  my  own  light.  My  will,  my  personality,  offer 
little  resistance:  they  let  the  shy  delicate  influences 
pass.  I  can  surrender  myself  to  nature  without 
effort,  but  am  more  or  less  restrained  and  self-con 
scious  in  the  presence  of  my  fellows.  Bird  and 
beast  take  to  me,  and  I  to  them.  I  can  look  in 
the  eye  of  an  ugly  dog  and  win  him,  but  with  an 
ugly  man  I  have  less  success. 

I  have  unmistakably  the  feminine  idiosyncrasy. 


256  INDOOR   STUDIES 

Perhaps  this  is  the  reason  that  my  best  and  most 
enthusiastic  readers  appear  to  he  women.  In  the 
genesis  of  all  my  books,  feeling  goes  a  long  way 
before  intellection.  What  I  feel  I  can  express, 
and  only  what  I  feel.  If  I  had  run  after  the  birds 
only  to  write  about  them,  I  never  should  have  writ 
ten  anything  that  any  one  would  have  cared  to 
read.  I  must  write  from  sympathy  and  love,  or 
not  at  all:  I  have  in  no  sort  of  measure  the  gift  of 
the  ready  writer  who  can  turn  his  pen  to  all  sorts 
of  themes ;  or  the  dramatic,  creative  gift  of  the  great 
poets,  which  enables  them  to  get  out  of  themselves 
and  present  vividly  and  powerfully  things  entirely 
beyond  the  circle  of  their  own  lives  and  experiences. 
I  go  to  the  woods  to  enjoy  myself,  and  not  to  report 
them;  and  if  I  succeed,  the  expedition  may  by  and 
by  bear  fruit  at  my  pen.  When  a  writer  of  my 
limited  range  begins  to  "make  believe,"  or  to  go 
outside  of  his  experience,  he  betrays  himself  at 
once.  My  success,  such  as  it  is,  has  been  in  put 
ting  my  own  personal  feelings  and  attractions  into 
subjects  of  universal  interest.  I  have  loved  Nature 
no  more  than  thousands  upon  thousands  of  others 
have,  but  my  aim  has  been  not  to  tell  that  love  to 
my  reader,  but  to  tell  it  to  the  trees  and  the  birds 
and  to  let  them  tell  him.  I  think  we  all  like  this 
indirect  way  the  best.  It  will  not  do  in  literature 
to  compliment  Nature  and  make  love  to  her  by  open 
profession  and  declaration:  you  must  show  your 
love  by  your  deeds  or  your  spirit,  and  by  the  sincer 
ity  of  your  service  to  her. 


AN   EGOTISTICAL  CHAPTER  257 

For  my  part,  I  can  never  interview  Nature  in  the 
reporter  fashion:  I  must  camp  and  tramp  with  her 
to  get  any  good,  and  what  I  get  I  absorb  through 
my  emotions  rather  than  consciously  gather  through 
my  intellect.  Hence  the  act  of  composition  with 
me  is  a  kind  of  self-exploration  to  see  what  hidden 
stores  my  mind  holds.  If  I  write  upon  a  favorite 
author,  for  instance,  I  do  not  give  my  reader  some 
thing  which  lay  clearly  denned  in  my  mind  when  I 
began  to  write :  I  give  him  what  I  find,  after  closest 
scrutiny,  in  the  sub-conscious  regions,  —  a  result  as 
unknown  to  me  as  to  him  when  I  began  to  write. 
The  same  with  outdoor  subjects.  I  come  gradually 
to  have  a  feeling  that  I  want  to  write  upon  a  given 
theme,  —  rain,  for  instance,  or  snow,  —  but  what  I 
may  have  to  say  upon  it  is  as  vague  as  the  back 
ground  of  one  of  Millet's  pictures;  my  hope  is 
entirely  in  the  feeling  or  attraction  which  draws 
my  mind  that  way;  the  subject  is  congenial,  it 
sticks  to  me;  whenever  it  recurs  to  me,  it  awakens 
as  it  were  a  warm  personal  response. 

Perhaps  this  is  the  experience  of  all  other  writ 
ers:  their  subjects  find  them,  or  bring  the  key  to 
their  hidden  stores.  Great  poets,  like  Milton, 
however,  cast  about  them  and  deliberately  choose 
a  therne:  they  are  not  hampered  by  their  sympa 
thies,  nor  are  they  prisoners  of  their  own  personali 
ties,  like  writers  who  depend  upon  this  pack  of 
unconscious  impressions  at  their  back.  An  experi 
ence  must  lie  in  my  mind  a  certain  time  before  I 
can  put  it  upon  paper,  —  say  from  three  to  six 


258  INDOOR   STUDIES 

months.  If  there  is  anything  in  it,  it  will  ripen 
and  mellow  in  that  time.  I  rarely  take  any  notes, 
and  I  have  a  very  poor  memory,  but  rely  upon  the 
affinity  of  my  mind  for  a  certain  order  of  truths  or 
observations.  What  is  mine  will  stick  to  me,  and 
what  is  not  will  drop  off.  When  I  returned  from 
England  after  a  three  months'  visit  in  the  summer 
of  1882,  I  was  conscious  of  having  brought  back 
with  me  a  few  observations  that  I  might  expand 
into  two  or  three  short  essays.  But  when  I  began 
to  open  my  pack  the  contents  grew  so  upon  my 
hands  that  it  reached  many  times  the  measure  I  at 
first  proposed.  Indeed,  when  I  look  back  over  my 
seven  volumes  I  wonder  where  they  have  all  come 
from.  I  am  like  a  boy  who  at  the  close  of  the  day 
looks  over  his  string  of  fish  curiously,  not  one  of 
which  did  he  know  of  in  the  morning,  and  every 
one  of  which  came  to  his  hand  from  depths  beyond 
his  ken  by  luck  and  skill  in  fishing.  I  have  often 
caught  my  fish  when  I  least  expected  to,  and  as 
often  my  most  determined  efforts  have  been  entirely 
unavailing. 

It  is  a  wise  injunction,  "Know  thyself,"  but 
how  hard  to  fulfill!  This  unconscious  region  in 
one,  this  unconscious  setting  of  the  currents  of  his 
life  in  certain  directions,  —  how  hard  to  know 
that!  The  influences  of  his  family,  his  race,  his 
times,  his  environment,  are  all  deeper  than  the 
plummet  of  his  self-knowledge  can  reach.  Yet 
how  we  admire  the  ready  man,  the  man  who  always 
has  complete  control  of  his  resources,  who  can  speak 


AN   EGOTISTICAL   CHAPTER  259 

the  right  word  instantly !  My  own  wit  is  always 
Mated.  After  the  crisis  is  past,  the  right  word  or 
the  right  sentence  is  pretty  sure  to  appear  and  mock 
me  by  its  tardiness. 

There  is,  no  doubt,  a  great  difference  in  men  with 
reference  to  this  knowledge  and  command  of  their 
own  resources.  Some  writers  seem  to  me  to  be  like 
those  military  states  wherein  every  man  is  numbered, 
drilled,  and  equipped,  and  ready  for  instant  service: 
the  whole  male  population  is  a  standing  army. 
Then  there  are  men  of  another  type  who  have  no 
standing  army.  They  are  absorbed  in  mere  living, 
and,  when  the  occasion  requires,  they  have  to 
recruit  their  ideas  slowly  from  the  vague,  uncertain 
masses  in  the  background.  Hence  they  never  cut 
a  brilliant  figure  upon  paper,  though  they  may  be 
capable  of  doing  real  heartfelt  work. 


INDEX 


Achievement  and  fame,  239-242. 

Addispn,  Joseph,  156. 

America,   Matthew  Arnold's   criti 
cism  of,  82,  83,  107. 

Ancients,  science  of  the,  48-51. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  69  ;  essentially  a 
critic  and  filled  with  the  senti 
ment  of  culture,  81 ;  his  criticism 
of  British  civilization,  81,  82,  87, 
95-97,  99,  100,  117-119;  his  criti 
cism  of  America,  82, 83, 107  ;  com 
pared  and  contrasted  with  Car 
lyle,  84-87,  93  ;  preeminently  a 
critical  force,  87,  88 ;  a  civilizing 
and  centralizing  force,  88-90 ;  a 
serious  and  noble  man,  90 ;  his 
published  works,  90,  91  ;  on  criti 
cism,  91,  92;  his  Hellenism,  92- 
119;  a  classic  writer,  93,  94 ;  his 
devotion  to  culture,  94  ;  on  poetry 
97-99;  on  religion  and  religious 
worship,  100-105,  125;  his  advo 
cacy  of  institutionalism,  105-116 ; 
on  Benjamin  Franklin,  108,  109  ; 
on  Jeremy  Bentham,  109  ;  his  ad 
miration  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
112-116;  effect  of  his  teaching, 
116-118  ;  as  a  critic  of  literature, 
119-121,  131;  his  Celtic  Litera 
ture,  119  ;  his  Translating  Homer, 
119;  on  Wordsworth,  119;  com 
pared  with  Saint-Beuve,  120,  121  ; 
his  style,  121,  122;  consecutive- 
ness  of  his  ideas,  122-124, 136, 137; 
his  common-sense,  124, 125;  his  wit 
and  humor,  125-127  ;  his  Friend 
ship's  Garland,  126,  127 ;  his 
calm,  unclouded  intelligence,  127,  ! 
128  ;  his  personal  appearance,  129,  ! 
130;  on  Emerson,  129-136,  144, 
145, 148,  151-154 ;  on  Carlyle,  129- 
132,  143  ;  on  Cardinal  Newman,  | 
132 ;  150  ;  his  academic  bias,  151  ;  | 
156;  the  author's  debt  to,  250 ;  i 
quotations  from,  91-102,  104,  107- 
114,  118,  119,  125-128,  132,  133, 
136,  137,  143. 


Arrow-heads,  Indian,  15,  36. 
Astronomy,  ancient,  50. 
Audubon,  John  James,  55. 
Autobiography,  243,  244. 

Bacon,  Francis,  87,  156. 

Bentham,  Jeremy,  109. 

Bible,  the,  Matthew  Arnold  on,  100, 
101 ;  116. 

Birds,  ground-building  birds  and 
their  nests,  175,  176;  length  of 
the  song  season,  176;  evolution 
of,  196,  197. 

Birrell,  Augustine,  on  Dr.  Johnson 
and  Carlyle,  198-200,  203. 

Blackbird,  red-winged.  See  Star 
ling,  red- shouldered. 

Bluebird  (Sialia  sialis),  notes  of, 
37. 

Bobolink  (Dolichonyx  oryzivorus), 

Brown,  Captain  John,  6-8. 

Browning,  Robert,  72,  142 ;  his  in- 
volved  style,  250,  261. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  69,  151, 
252. 

Bumblebee,  209. 

Burns,  Robert,  159. 

Burroughs,  John,  early  and  later 
associations,  244  ;  begins  to  write, 
245-247  ;  fondness  for  essays,  245  ; 
sees  his  first  author,  245,  246; 
comes  under  the  influence  of 
Emerson's  writings,  247,  248; 
takes  to  writing  outdoor  sketches, 
247, 248 ;  conscious  of  persons,  248, 
249  ;  his  debts  to  various  authors. 
249-252  ;  his  style,  252,  253 ;  hia 
deficiency  in  self-assertion  and  its 
compensating  advantages,  255 ; 
must  write  from  sympathy  and 
love,  or  not  at  all,  256;  act  of 
composition  a  kind  of  self-explora 
tion,  257,  258 ;  his  knowledge  and 
command  of  his  resources,  258, 
259. 

Butler,  Joseph,    hia   Analogy   &«• 


262 


INDEX 


tween  Natural  and  Revealed  Re 
ligion,  92. 
Byroii,  Lord,  69. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  his  debt  to  sci 
ence,  78,  79 ;  his  Spiritual  Optics, 
78 ;  81  ;  compared  and  contrasted 
with  Matthew  Arnold,  84-87,  93 ; 
90;  Arnold's  criticism  of,  129- 
132,  143 ;  an  unclassical  writer, 
130, 131  ;  138  ;  a  great  writer,  139  ; 
his  histories,  139-141,  146;  his 
Oliver  Cromwell,  141  ;  his  Fred 
erick  the  Great,  141, 146  ;  his  style, 
141-143 ;  his  Life  of  John  Ster 
ling,  142;  his  attitude  towards 
happiness,  143 ;  not  a  typical  lit 
erary  man,  150  ;  151,  155,  156 ;  his 
heroic  sorrow,  160,  161 ;  his  ser 
vice  to  his  age  and  country,  162  ; 
168 ;  compared  and  contrasted 
with  Dr.  Johnson,  198-206;  his 
imagination,  200,  201  ;  his  despair, 
201,  202;  238,  255;  quotations 
from,  85,  86,  156,  160,  161,  203, 
213-215. 

Catholicism,  Matthew  Arnold  on, 
100,  101,  112-116. 

Chewink,  or  towhee  (Pipilo  ery- 
throphthalmus),  175. 

Christianity,  95;  Matthew  Arnold 
on,  102-105,  125. 

Church,  the  English,  Matthew  Ar 
nold  on,  100;  108.  See  Catholi 
cism,  Protestantism,  and  Puritan 
ism. 

City,  the,  218. 

Cock,  crowing  of  the,  28. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  69,  204. 

Cowley,  Abraham,  his  essays,  164 ; 
a  lover  of  solitude,  223,  224 ;  quo 
tations  from,  224. 

Culture,  Arnold's  idea  of,  94. 

Darwin,  Charles,  51,  52 ;  full  of  the 
sentiment  of  science,  55-57  ;  150, 
193,  194. 

DeKay,  Charles,  71. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  179. 

Dixon,  Hepworth,  126. 

Dragon-fly,  in  Tennyson's  poem,  72. 

Earth,  the,  future  of,  197,  198.  See 
Geology. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  4,  5,  8,  12, 
25,  33;  his  attitude  towards  sci 
ence,  73-78 ;  81  ;  his  English 
Traits,  87  ;  90  ;  the  most  unclassi 
cal  of  poets,  98 ;  124  ;  Matthew 
Arnold's  criticism  of,  129-136, 144, 


145,  148,  151-154 ;  an  unclassical 
writer,  130,  131  ;  138,  142 ;  hia 
lack  of  continuity  as  a  writer,  144, 
145 ;  his  Representative  Men,  145; 
his  English  Traits,  145,  146 ;  his 
style,  146,  147  ;  hie  inspiring  mes 
sage,  147,  148  ;  flavor  of  character 
strongest  in  his  writing,  148, 149 ; 
the  spirit  of  his  work,  150 ;  as  a 
poet,  151-156;  his  personality, 
155 ;  his  heroic  note,  155-160 ;  his 
Titmouse,  159 ;  his  service  to  his 
age  and  country,  162;  influence 
of  his  writings  on  the  author,  247, 
248,  252  ;  quotations  from,  52,  74- 
77,  87,  112,  130,  140,  144-146,  153, 
156-159,  217,  249. 

England,  81,  82,  111,  112;  some 
points  of  difference  between  her 
natural  history  and  that  of  New 
England  and  New  York,  173-176  ; 
things  and  people  larger,  heavier, 
stronger,  and  coarser  than  in 
America,  206-209;  vehicles  in, 
207. 

English,  the,  Emerson  on,  87  ;  Mat 
thew  Arnold  on,  81,  82,  87,  95- 
97,  99,  100,  117-119. 

English  literature,  superior  in 
breadth  and  heartiness  to  Ameri 
can,  209-211. 

Evolution,  geology  and,  193-198. 

Eye,  the  spirit  of  the,  49. 

Fame  and  achievement,  239-242. 
Fire,  the  ancient  idea  of,  50. 
Flicker.     See  High-hole. 
Franklin,  Benjamin,  108,  109,  124, 

156. 

Friend  in  solitude,  a,  224,  225. 
Frogs,  British,  174. 

Geology,  Emerson  on,  76 ;  evolu 
tion  and,  193-198. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  quotation  from, 
179. 

God,  the  nature  of,  227-231. 

Goethe,  57  ;  his  scientific  ideas,  59, 
60  ;  66,  103,  109,  132,  133,  138 ; 
quotations  from,  43,  47,  88,  149, 
236,  237. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  239,  240,  242. 

Greece.     See  Hellenism. 

Grosbeak,  pine  (Pinicola  enuclea- 
tor),  169. 

Hanger,  the,  176. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  69. 
Heat,  as  a  form  of  motion,  76. 
Hebraism,  83,  86,  87,  93. 


INDEX 


263 


Hellenism,  83,  86,  87,  93-101,  106- 

108,  116-119. 

Herodotus,  his  view  of  the  sun,  227. 
Higginson,  Thouiaa  Wentworth,  his 

High-Sole,  or  flicker  (Colaples  au- 
ralus),  notes  of,  37. 

History,  139,  140. 

Hog,  171. 

Hoopoe,  1G9,  170. 

Hugo,  Victor,  his  treatment  of  na 
ture,  180,  190,  191 ;  a  great  man, 
180 ;  his  riotous  sensationalism, 
181-190;  his  The  Man  ivho 
Laughs,  181,  183  ;  his  The  Toilers 
of  the  Sea,  181-183 ;  his  Les  Mis- 
erables,  182,  190,  191 ;  his  Napo 
leon  the  Little,  183  ;  his  Bug  Jar- 
gal,  185  ;  his  Notre  Dame,  185- 
189 ;  quotations  from,  190,  191. 

Humboldt,  Baron  von,  his  human 
ism,  57-59. 

Idiot  boy,  an,  173. 

Indian  and  his  daughter,  an  old, 
59. 

Individualism,  Matthew  Arnold  op 
posed  to  the  spirit  of,  106-112. 

Institutionalism,  105-116. 

Irving,  Washington,  69,  151. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  compared  and 
contrasted  with  Carlyle,  198-206  ; 
an  "  old  struggler,"  199,  200  ;  his 
sluggishness,  200-202;  his  sense 
of  duty,  202 ;  his  human  frailties, 
202  ;  his  religion  and  politics,  203  ; 
a  greater  and  more  picturesque 
force  personally  than  intellectu 
ally,  203,  204  ;  lives  through  Bos- 
well,  204,  206:  239;  quotations 
ffom,  115,  201-204,  206. 

Junco,  slate-colored.  See  Snow 
bird. 

Keats,  John,  69,  72,  73,  88  ;  quota 
tions  from,  72,  73. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  69, 123, 124  ; 
quotation  from,  154. 

Lark,  grasshopper,  170 ;  notes  of 
170. 

Linnaeus,  73. 

Literature,  contrasted  with  science, 
44,  45,  51-53;  not  to  be  sup 
planted  by  science,  45-47,  53-55  ; 
in  the  works  of  scientists,  r,:,  :>'.» ; 
does  not  keep  pace  with  civiliza 
tion,  60-62  ;  man  alone  of  per 
ennial  interest  in,  62 ;  things  di 


rectly  related  to  our  natural  lives 
most  interesting  to,  63-65  ;  future 
effect  of  science  on,  65,  66 ;  not 
incompatible  with  science,  66,  67  ; 
use  of  science  in,  69-80  ;  American 
possessed  of  more  grace  and  Re 
finement  and  less  bulk  than  the 
English  or  German,  209-211  ;  ne 
cessity  of  sincerity  in,  253,  254. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth,  C9, 
151,  252. 

Lyell,  Sir  Charles,  66. 

Man,  evolution  of,  197,  198. 
Martin,  English  house,  or  martlet, 

notes  of,  174. 
Marvell,  Andrew,  quotation  from, 

225. 
Mestizo  Indian  and  his  daughter,  an 

old,  59. 
Milton,  John,  96,  134,  138  ;  his  bias 

of  Puritanism,  151,  154. 
Morley,  John,  121,  122,  131. 
Muskrat  (Fiber  zibeihicus),  38. 

Nations,  selfishness  and  dishonesty 
of,  212,  213. 

Nature,  man's  dependence  on,  64  ; 
Victor  Hugo's  treatment  of,  180, 
190,  191  ;  the  great  poet's  use  of, 
191  ;  communion  with,  222. 

Newman,  Cardinal,  113  ;  his  style, 
121, 122  ;  Matthew  Arnold  on,  132. 

Nichols,  Starr  H.,  his  Monte  Rosa  : 
the  Epic  of  an  Alp,  71,  72. 

Ornithologists,  55. 

Oven-bird    (Seiurus  aurocapillus\ 

175. 

Owl,  the,  of  Keats,  73. 
Owl,  fern,  170. 
Owl,  white,  feeding  its  young,  170  ,• 

nest  of,  170. 

Pigeons,  their  manner  of  drinking, 
171. 

Plover,  stilt,  171. 

Plutarch,  48  ;  quotations  from,  48- 
50. 

Poet,  the,  and  the  scientist,  66,  67  ; 
his  use  of  the  discoveries  of  sci 
ence,  70  ;  his  use  of  material,  77  ; 
his  use  of  nature,  191. 

Poetry,  the  Greek  theory  of,  97-99 ; 
Carlyle's  definition  of,  156. 

Pope,  Alexander,  239,  242. 

Prayer,  232-234. 

Protestantism,  Matthew  Arnold  on, 
100,  101,114,  116. 

Providences,  special,  228-232. 


264 


INDEX 


Puritanism,  Matthew  Arnold  on, 
97,  100,  118. 

Rain-water,    the   ancient   idea   of, 

49. 

Realism,  the  true,  234-239. 
Recluse  in  Mexico,  a,  219,  220. 
Redstart,  European,  170. 
Religious  belief,  effect  of  science  on, 

225-234. 
Romans,  in  the  presence  of  nature, 

179. 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  69. 
Ruskin,  John,  147,  150,  151. 

Sadi  of  Shiraz,  the  Gulistan  or 
Rose  Garden  of,  41, 42. 

Sainte-Beuve,  Charles  Augustin,120, 
121,  134,  136;  quotations  from, 
137,  138,  156. 

Sala,  George  Augustus,  126, 127. 

Science,  lifeless  character  of  its 
view  of  nature,  43, 44 ;  contrasted 
with  literature,  44,  45,  51-53; 
cannot  take,  the  place  of  litera 
ture,  45,  47,  53-55;  artificial 
knowledge,  47,  48;  of  the  an 
cients,  4&-51 ;  poetic  spirit  in,  55- 
60 ;  certain  branches  of  interest 
to  literature,  62  ;  future  effect  on 
literature,  65,  66  ;  not  incompat 
ible  with  literature,  66,  67  ;  many 
poets  not  influenced  by,  69 ; 
Wordsworth  on,  69,  70  ;  its  influ 
ence  on  certain  poets,  71-77  ;  Car- 
lyle'sdebtto,  78,79  ;  poetic  truths 
in,  79,  80 ;  its  effect  on  religious 
beliefs,  225-234. 

Selborne,  176,  177. 

Shakespeare,  46,  138,  154,  155,  184, 
238  ;  quotations  from,  25,  141. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  69. 

Shrike  (Lanius  sp.),  notes  of,  38. 

Skunk  (Mephitis  mepkitica),  inter- 
vie  wed  by  Thoreau,  40. 

Snow,  the  spirit  of,  48,  49. 

Snowbird,  or  slate -colored  junco 
(Junco  hyemalis),  nest  of,  176. 

Solitude,  pleasant  and  profitable  to 
certain  natures,  217-221  ;  the  liter 
ature  of,  221-225  ;  a  friend  in,  224, 
225. 

Bow,  an  aged,  171. 

Sparrow,  fox  (Passerella  iliaca), 
35. 

Sparrow,  song  (Melospiza  fasci- 
ata),  35, 175 ;  nest  of,  176. 

Sparrow,  tree,  or  Canada  (Spizella 
monticola),  35. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  79. 


Starling,  red-shouldered,  or  red- 
winged  blackbird  (Agelaius 
phceniceus),  notes  of,  38. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  210. 

Sun,  the,  not  the  special  appurte 
nance  of  the  earth,  226-228. 

Swallow,  barn  (Chelidon  erythro- 
gaster),  notes  of,  174 ;  nest  of. 
175. 

Swallow,  chimney,  or  chimney  swift 
(Chcetura  pelagica),  notes  of,  175  ; 
nest  of,  175. 

Swallow,  cliff  (Petrochelidon  luni- 
frons),  notes  of,  174. 

Swallow,  European  house  or  chim 
ney,  notes  of,  174,  175  ;  nest  of, 
175. 

Swallows,  170. 

Swift,  chimney.  See  Swallow,  chim 
ney. 

Swift,  European,  notes  of,  175; 
nest  of,  175. 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles,  69, 
185 ;  his  poetry,  251,  252 ;  quota 
tion  from,  251. 

Tame,  Hippolyte  Adolphe,  140. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  his  debt  to  physi 
cal  science,  72 ;  quotation  from, 
72. 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  his  journal, 
1-3, 38 ;  his  A  Week  on  the  Concord 
and  Merrimac  Rivers,  2 ;  his 
Walden,  2,  29-32;  his  private 
letters,  3 ;  his  fame  steadily  in 
creasing,  3,4;  his  individuality, 
4,  5  ;  not  a  skulker,  5-8  ;  his  plea 
for  John  Brown,  6,  7 ;  Brown's 
spiritual  brother,  8  ;  not  a  leader 
of  men,  8, 9  ;  his  gift  to  the  world, 
9,  10 ;  his  strength  of  character 
and  devotion  to  principle,  10?  11 ; 
a  wild  man  and  a  lover  of  the 
wild,  11-16  ;  his  heritage,  12  ;  his 
feeling  for  the  Indian,  15,  16 ;  his 
refinement  and  sensitiveness,  16, 
17  ;  his  stubbornness  and  spirit 
of  antagonism,  17,  18 ;  his  griefs, 
18, 19  ;  love  and  hatred  seemingly 
inseparable  in  his  mind,  19,20; 
his  passion  for  storms,  21,  22  ;  his 
playful  perversity,  22;  his  atti 
tude  towards  men,  22,  23,  40,  248, 
249  ;  on  Walt  Whitman,  23  ;  his 
exaggeration  of  statement,  23-28  ; 
his  bragging,  28-30 ;  his  humor, 
31,  32;  his  attitude  towards  na- 
ture,  33-37 ;  as  an  observer,  34- 
41 ;  his  eye  for  arrow-heads,  36  ; 
his  rare  descriptive  powers,  37, 


INDEX 


265 


38 ;  an  azad  or  free  man,  42 ;  150, 
151,  220,  248 ;  quotations  from, 
1,  4,  7-9,  12,  14-22,  24,  27-33,  35- 
.42. 

Thrasher,  brown  (Harporhynchus 
rufus),  175. 

Times,  The,  127. 

Toad,  breeding  of,  173,  174  ;  young 
of,  174. 

Tortoise,  Gilbert  White's,  172,  173. 

Towhee.    See  Chewink. 

Turg«5nef,  quotation  from,  232. 

Virgil,  48. 

Wagtail,  171. 

War,  the  ethics  of,  211-217. 

Warbler,  Canada  (Sylvania  cana- 
densis),  175. 

Whipple,  Edwin  Percy,  246. 

Whip-poor- will  (Antrostomus  voci- 
ferus\  song  of,  38. 

White,  Gilbert,  33 ;  source  of  his 
charm,  163-168;  as  an  observer, 
168-173 ;  some  points  of  difference 
between  the  natural  history  of 


New  England  and  New  York  and 
that  of  England,  as  exhibited  in 
White's  Sdborne,  173-176;  his 
house  and  haunts,  176 ;  his  tomb, 
177  ;  his  place  in  literature,  177  ; 
quotations  from,  170-173,  176. 

White,  Richard  Grant,  163. 

Whitman,  Walt,  Thoreau  on,  23  ;  72, 
73,  142 ;  an  exception  to  tht 
American  tendency  to  over-refine^ 
ment,  211 ;  the  author's  debt  to 
249,  250,  252. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  69, 252. 

Wilson,  Alexander,  55,  66. 

Women,  as  hermits,  221. 

Woodchuck  (Arctomys  monax),  14, 
38. 

Wordsworth,  William,  his  attitude 
towards  science,  69,  70  ;  Matthew 
Arnold  on,  119,  134  ;  138  ;  his  di 
dactic  bias,  151;  154  ;  the  poet  of 
solitude,  221-223  ;  250 ;  quotations 
from,  44,  222,  223. 

Yew,  American,  177. 
Yew,  English,  177. 


(OTfce  fiilicrgibe  prcs* 

Elf  ctrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 
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